Horses
by Dakki
Summary: [FINALLY UPDATED! WOOHOO] In 1900, the Jacobs family left New York for good and moved out west. Inspired by David's stories, Jack decides to try his luck on the Oregon Trail along with some of his fellow newsies.
1. Fresh Horses

A/N: I think I should start this out by stating the obvious: I'm an Oregonian, born and bred. You would probably have figured that out on your own in good time, having read sentences about "David's family finding happiness in the bosom of the Pacific Northwest," and "Jack abandoning his dream of Santa Fe in favor of the fertile lands of the Willamette Valley." (Okay, I wont spread it on THAT thick.) The point is, I've been obsessed with the Oregon trail ever since I was big enough to lift an encyclopedia, seeing as it's the only thing my home state is famous for. And last night, I had a dream.  
  
Did you ever play the computer game "Oregon Trail" when you were a kid? You know—you name your family, buy livestock, make deals with Indians crossing rivers and suchlike and finally end up settled out West after fifteen minutes of watching your oxen stroll along eating grass and occasionally dropping dead because you forgot to give them any water? It was impossible not to win. Of course, then they upgraded the format and you couldn't even play it anymore without your entire family dying of cholera after about four seconds. But that part isn't important. You see, last night, before bed, I unearthed my old copy of "Oregon Trail" and, entranced by the slowly hypnotic movements of the oxen, stayed downstairs playing it until about two in the morning. After that, I managed to rip my eyes away from the monitor, staying awake long enough to begin playing "Santa Fe" on my stereo, and promptly fell asleep. This is what I encountered—  
  
Newsies. Wearing cowboy hats, riding horses (and it's not just Cowboy being delusional this time). Steering wagons, hunting for food, starting fires. Fording rivers. Building log cabins. Newsies—frontier style. I have seen the top of the mountain, and it is good.  
  
Anyway, enough of my babbling. All you need to know is that this isn't completely unprecedented—and hopefully I can't be deemed insane for wanting to see Mush riding an Appaloosa. Also, although the Oregon Trail had its heyday in the 1850's, and 60's, it was still, I am pleased to say, alive and kicking as late as...oh, say...1899, perhaps? *grins shamelessly*  
  
And now, on to the fic!  
  
*~*~*  
  
Prologue—  
  
Fresh Horses  
  
*~*~*  
  
Looking back, it was almost inevitable. Ever since David and his family packed up and moved out West, It had seemed more and more obvious to Jack just how little future he had in New York. He had seen them off at the train station, said one last goodbye to David, who did his best to explain something that he himself didn't fully understand. His father had talked for years about the opportunity out West, how there were hundreds of acres of land there for the taking. He had always refused to accept the idea that he had worked all his life for nothing more than a tenement apartment on the Lower East Side. When he couldn't find any work again, and couldn't go back to his old job, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. So he got the deposit back on the apartment, sold what he couldn't afford to ship, and spent the last of his money on five train tickets headed for Oregon, the last frontier. It was his vision: fertile land and mountain ranges, water clear and cold, the forests and the prairies, and the sky—vast, unstintingly bright, arching into a violent blue zenith and stretched taught over the belly of possibility. It was the dream that he had always had, and now he was realizing it once and for all.  
  
It goes without saying that everyone thought he was insane.  
  
The entire family was being uprooted on a lark, and it made as much sense to David explaining it that day at the train yards as it did to Jack. Neither of them had ever been out of New York City in their lives, never farther away from home than Brooklyn, and even going there was an event. Their entire existences were contained on a tiny island, and that was the way that it had always been. To pick up and leave everything, to move three thousand miles away to the wild frontier—there were no words for this. Neither had any idea how to react.  
  
"So I guess you ain't gonna be a newsie no more," Jack said at last, casting a sullen glance once more to the list of departure times.  
  
David laughed lightly. "I doubt it," he said. "You think they can even read out there?"  
  
"I dunno, Dave, they can't read too good here, neither."  
  
They both knew that this was about the closest thing they would get to saying they would miss each other, how they would always be friends. They weren't good at saying goodbye. That was girl stuff.  
  
"Davey!" Sarah called urgently. She was struggling to heave a steamer trunk full of the last of their possessions on board, pushing with all her might with Les on the other side, unable to catch the eye of a passing porter. "We're leaving!"  
  
"I'll write," David said. Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder, and almost smiled.  
  
"Carryin' da bannah."  
  
"Carrying the banner."  
  
And with that David departed, headed for an uncertain departure, away from this terrible city.  
  
*~*~*  
  
Jack had never thought that David would really hold true to his promise. He expected to get a few letters to begin with, but then for the writing to slowly taper off as he settled into his new life. It was how he knew things to work: old friends quickly lost their places in favor of new ones, old promises buckling under the weight of time. Somehow, though, it didn't quite work out that way this time. Maybe there was something in the water.  
  
Because David DID write. Dozens of letters, long and detailed, sometimes arriving so often that Jack had to wonder if he ever did anything else. They were homesteading somewhere north of Portland, building a house among stands of pines, in the shadows of the mountains. It was something Jack found himself unable even to imagine, but with David's letters to guide him he sometimes felt as though he were witnessing it himself. Every time there were new stories—meeting new neighbors, plowing the fields, Les (who was getting more grown-up by the day, apparently) bringing a baby raccoon into the house, which he dressed in Sarah's new sunbonnet. Deer leaving hoofprints in the vegetable garden as they walked gingerly through rows of carrots and runner beans, leaving the imprint of time in their wake—planting time, harvest time, the coming of autumn and spring. David told Jack stories, stories of the life that he had never known he wanted, and Jack had nothing to give to him return. He found himself, desperate for something to talk about, writing up how many papers he had sold that day at the beginning of every letter.  
  
In the daytime and the nighttime, he dreamed about the west. He had long ago given up on Santa Fe, seeing it as an ephemeral and fleeting dream, an escape that he eventually outgrew. The trouble was, he was outgrowing this life too. As a newsie he existed in a furious present tense, never looking ahead farther than a week. He had always known that someday he would have to find something real for himself. And the West was real. He wanted mountains, prairies and Indians, wild horses and wide-open space. He imagined doing things right for once, packing everything he had into a covered wagon and joining the army of pioneers that dreamed of the same thing he did. This was solid, this was real: this was a life. Everything he saw seemed to be ushering him out of his catch-as-catch-can existence, right down to the statue of Horace Greeley whose inscription he had done a good job of ignoring for years: "go west, young man, and grow up with your country."  
  
Jack wanted out. Hesitation held him with as much strength as any tether of rope or chain, and ambitions became daydreams. He kept David's letters in his pocket during the day, to read during idle moments. For the longest time, it seemed as if Oregon would become yet another Santa Fe. But then, one night, he looked up at the sky, and realized that he had already lingered long enough.  
  
He had been thinking that day about the skies out west. Gusty and endless and wild with stars—beauty. It was late in March, almost a year since David had left, and he was sitting out on the fire escape of the lodging house, alone, reveling in the spring air. He leaned his head back against the hard wrought-iron, and looked up. Hazy, a cloudless smog, dull, roiling heavens. And not a star in sight.  
  
It was that moment that Jack's insatiable wanderlust became drive, pure and unburdened. Once he made a decision, he didn't go back. And he knew, now, with utter certainty, unmatched by anything: he was leaving. Now, forever. Not only that, but he would take with him whoever in the lodging house had once even dreamed of freedom and space. He was breaking free.  
  
Slowly, Jack stood up, threw open the window's heavy sash, and stepped into the dimness of the bunkroom. In every eye that fell on him, there was a spark of curiosity, and in some a gleam of knowing yet to be quenched. Jack took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to speak. 


	2. If Wishes Were Horses

A/N: Since it would mean writing a chapter about fifteen times longer than anyone's attention span would allow, I'm not going to be able to introduce every original character at once. Everyone who replied to the CC is going to show up in the fic, some later than others, but the vast majority will come into focus in the next few chapters. And, of course, everyone's going to get a little action...even if it kills me. (Which it probably will.) Also, in one of the books on the Oregon Trail that I checked out from the library, I found a chapter on pioneer weddings that I'm definitely going to use. Let's just put it this way: you're in for your fair share of mushy stuff.

...And now, on to the fic!

--

Chapter One—

If Wishes Were Horses

--

Racetrack Higgins lay flat on his back, stretched out on the field's hard- packed earth, his eyes to the heavens, looking up at the clear night sky. A cool spring breeze stirred the dry prairie grasses and brought to him the lingering scent of the burnt-out cooking fires down to their last glowing embers. Far away he could hear the sound of hoofbeats on the hardened ground, the gentle thunder of the dappled mares and geldings that some of the families had opted to bring along with them on the trail. Earlier that afternoon he had introduced himself around the camp, said a few quick helloes to the others that had the wagon train, and taken a few lingering glances at the animals, oxen and mules far outnumbering the people about to embark on the journey, not to mention ponies, a few milk cows, the odd family dog—and horses.

One person, a girl who had shyly introduced herself to him as Kathryne, had been saddling up her horse when he had come to talk to her. Even in the warm half-light of the late Missouri sunset he could see that she was lovely, maybe even beautiful with her soft eyes and ruddy hair half worked free of its crown of braids. But it was her horse that captivated him. It was a gorgeous chestnut stallion named Blaze, over sixteen hands high, and he had touched it gingerly at first, almost afraid that it would bite. The girl laughed, handing Racetrack an apple to feed to it, and the horse stretched its long neck gently towards him, and took the apple right from his palm, its warm mouth soft as velvet as it touched his skin.

Racetrack hadn't wanted to admit that that was the first time in his life he had ever gotten so close to a horse, come to a standstill and rested his hand on its neck, taking it all in—dark liquid eyes, body, fluid-galloping, strength apparent even when it stood motionless. The Sheepshead races had been his favorite place in the world ever since he was a child, and it was the horses that had drawn him there—he still remembered the autumn day when he had gone there the first time, no older than ten, watched the horses thunder along the track with his older sister Valentine, as her husband dove inside to place a bet. She, seventeen and the only person who had ever spoken a kind word to him, put her arms around his neck, hair in wild dark curls falling against his cheek, breathless. "Look at that," she had said. "Look at that—isn't that something? That's beautiful. That's life. Remember this for me, Anthony. Remember this forever."

And he had. He had. For the longest time that had been the only beauty he could find, beyond the smoke and the cinders and the tenement houses that had spelled out his very existence. But then the prairie winds had come and blown that all away. Suddenly, now, he was in love with the world. The animals, the trees, endless stretches of land long and wide as time itself, and mountains—mountains! Never in his life had he seen anything like them. Never. And each day, the skies got wider. He lay there that night, overwhelmed and close to tears as he stared up at the stars, shining, fixed and moving, each a bright point of light, undimmed. He hadn't even known that there had been so many. But there was so much else that he had been blind to...and this was only the beginning of the journey.

His thoughts slowed, and the lazy noises of the camp faded. He could hear his own heartbeat. He lay in the cooling fallow field, half-aware now of where he was, where his life was. Where he was going—that was something he could barely begin to understand. He could only go backwards. Stretched out flat that star-studded night he looked back over the last few days, and tried to see by which faint and circuitous route he had come to a field in the middle of Missouri, the jumping-off point for everything that was to come.

As usual, he could blame Jack for most of it.

It had been a little less that two weeks ago when Jack stepped in through the window to the bunkroom, into an ordinary night—card games, hushed conversation, the slow, loose evenings drummed up by boys too tired to do much of anything else. Jack had closed his eyes before he spoke, as if not trusting himself to look around—and when he began to talk he barely stopped, not even for breath.

It was all there. The wish for something more, to get away from years of living hand-to-mouth and forge new ground, to escape from the dread of living and dying and never being thought of again, never being cared for. They all knew it. But when Jack spoke of it that night it became more than nameless fears coming by night: he made it ambition, he made it true. They looked at him that night as he spoke, and were unable to look away.

Racetrack knew that he would be proud for the rest of his life that he had been the first to step forward and take Jack's invitation. Jack had looked over, almost startled when Race clapped his hand on his shoulder, smiling. "Don' think you can abandon us that fast, Jacky-boy. You can save a spot for me, too."

Jack smiled. "Think you'll be able to survive widout gambling, Race?"

"Ah, no problem. I'm sure the Indians got some kinda setup."

"Sure, Race, sure..."

After that, there was no stopping the others: they recognized a good idea when they saw one. In the end, their party had been expanded to no less than ten: Jack, Race, Blink, Mush, Specs, Dutchy, Skittery, Snoddy, Snitch, and (perhaps most surprisingly) Spot. After he opted to tag along, the motley crew decided to leave before Brooklyn erupted into a state of near-anarchy. Between collection of old debts, new loans of money from people who didn't know they would never see them again, life savings, Kloppman's generous contribution to the effort and the money that David's family wired to them, they figured they had just enough to get things done. They freeloaded to Independence, Missouri, and Racetrack was all for going the second leg of the journey the same way, but Jack had other ideas. He wanted to do things right, he said: buy supplies, animals, pack up two farm wagons and take to the trail. They would learn along the way what they needed to do, and by the time they reached Oregon they would be different people. Racetrack liked himself as he was, and was going to say it, too, but he saw that Jack had that gleam in his eye, the one he got whenever he got a letter from David, and decided to clam up. Besides, he didn't mind the idea all that much. He really almost liked it—out on the prairie, the horses, the wind. He could imagine himself out there, and he liked what he saw.

Once they got to Missouri they had found a wagon train departing in a few days, the perfect opportunity. Jack had gone into town that afternoon and come back with everything they needed—Racetrack couldn't quite see the use of seven pounds of lard, actually, even for six months on the trail, but Jack said that he had gotten good advice. Four days, two covered wagons, and eight oxen later, they were ready to take the plunge, and would depart, along with the rest of the wagon train, the very next day.

Letting out a happy sigh, Racetrack rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes. Breathing deeply of the scent of the wind, he smelled the grass and the sharp scent of wood, the wet-wool smell of the tents pitched in the field. And beyond that, even deeper, something else—something fertile, and green. It was the smell of rain, of beginnings, the smell of morning sun. It was something he had never known before. It was hope.

--

Unlike Racetrack, Snitch had never been overly fond of horses. They were big, lumbering creatures, and with their heavy steps and their rolling eyes they had always (almost, just a little bit) frightened him. Going out for a walk as darkness fell over the camp, he did his best to avoid them. But when he saw the girl currying the gray-dappled pony with attentive green eyes, he couldn't help but take a closer look.

The pony nickered softly as she worked him over with the curry comb, nuzzling her cheek affectionately. The girl smiled, ducking away and stroking him on the neck, so focused on her work that she didn't notice Snitch even as he was standing almost right beside her. She was turned away from him, brown hair mussed, fine hands resting in its mane. It was the pony that drew her attention to Snitch: it stared at him distrustfully, dead-on in a way that unnerved him. He was just beginning to slowly back off when the girl looked up and saw him standing there.

She smiled, startled a little, cheeks flushed in the half-light. "I don't think I've seen you around before."

"Well, we jus' got here a coupla days ago," Snitch said. From far off a snatch of some old song drifted across the field, a sweet, gritty melody plucked out on a banjo. "...I am a pilgrim and a stranger, traveling through this wearisome land..."

The girl cocked her head slightly, catching the unfamiliar cadence of his voice. "You're from that big group, aren't you?...All those boys who just arrived from New York?"

"That'd be me." Unsure of just what to do, he stepped forward for an awkward handshake. "I'm Snitch."

"Lute McDonaghey. And this is Prometheus," she added, gesturing to the pony.

Snitch nodded, not trusting himself to speak without stumbling over either name's pronunciation. As he edged slowly closer, wary of the green eyes fixed on him, Lute laughed out loud.

"What?" he said defensively.

"You're scared, aren't you?"

"No..."

"Yes, you are! Come on—"she reached out and took him warmly be the hand, leading him closer. "Prometheus wouldn't hurt a fly."

He stayed still, silent, looking at her distrustfully. Lute sighed. The fact that they had known each other for a grand total of a minute and were already getting along as if they had grown up together didn't seem to bother either of them.

"Come on," Lute said. "Pet him. He won't bite, I promise."

"No."

"Sooky baby."

"I ain't a sooky baby!"

"Oh yeah? then prove it."

Tentatively, Snitch reached out and stroked Prometheus gently on the neck. Momentarily reassured, he stepped closer, burying his fingers in the thick gray mane, petting him down to the withers. He smiled at Lute, across the pony's head. "See? I—"

But he didn't get to finish. Annoyed by something, Prometheus gave his head an irritated toss, right up to Snitch's face, where it connected painfully with his nose. Crying out, he backed up, hand up to protect his bloody nose.

"Oh, Snitch I'm so sorry, I—"

"Don't touch it!" Snitch said, stepping farther away and instinctively beginning to suck on his thumb.

"Snitch," Lute said calmly, "if you don't let me look at it it'll only hurt more."

Reluctantly, Snitch took his hands away. Stepping forward, Lute reached up with a handkerchief she had found in her pocket and gently pressed it to his nose, waiting until the bleeding stopped. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," he admitted.

Lute smiled, looking up at the boy with his thumb jammed in his mouth and teeth like scrabble tiles, set almost to aching by his vulnerability. Rummaging in her pocket she held out her hand to him once again. Snitch looked down: in har palm, white crystalline cubes, the promise of something sweet, and in her hazel eyes the same. Her small hand brushed against his as she pressed them into his palm.

"Sugar lumps. I use them sometimes," she said, "on Prometheus."

"Oh no. No. I ain't goin' near him again."

"Sooky baby," Lute teased.

"I ain't a sooky baby!"

And so it began.

--

Sitting slumped against the side of the wagon, Jack surveyed for the thousandth time the carefully taken-down list of supplies he had bought, wondering once again how he had been persuaded into not only paying for but actually coming to own two cast-iron frying pans. And that wasn't the only thing. As of today he was the proud owner of a hunting knife, a pound of shot and a rifle to go with it, a ten-gallon washtub, horse blankets, saddle bags, eleven tents (waterproof), a tar bucket, a coil of hemp rope, and ten pounds of chamomile tea. Oh, and a pint of whiskey. (Indians loved whiskey, apparently. They loved it.)

The trouble was, Jack couldn't see the use of any of it. (Except maybe the whiskey, he thought, taking a small sip from the flask.) But, he had to follow whatever advice he could get; he had decided early on that his diverse knowledge of the west through a combination of penny dreadfuls and vaudeville shows wasn't to be relied on much. The wagon train leader, a weathered pioneer named Buck Mulligan, had been helping him out, with a combination of affection and disdain since they had all arrived. Telling him what he would need to look for at the general store, Jack had questioned him whether all of it was really necessary, and Buck had just laughed and said that even a city boy like himself would find use for a hunting knife. And Jack, who more than a little resented being called a city boy, had gone into town that day and done what he could.

Looking back, he could see the general store more clearly now than he could back when he was actually inside of it, the calmness of the darkening sky cooling, for the first time in days, the frantic adrenaline mix of apprehension and joy that had been running through his veins since he saw New York City disappear in his wake.

He had stepped past the barrels of salt pork and bacon, the sacks of cornmeal and coffee and the rifles polished and hung up on the racks, and went straight to the old man behind the counter. "Hi," he said, sticking out his hand (restraining himself from spitting into it) and smiling. "The name's Jack Kelly, and I'm heading west."

The man eyed him warily, cringing slightly. "You goin' as far as Oregon?" he asked him at last.

"Yep," Jack said.

"Gonna want a farm wagon or a conestoga? Oxen or mules? How many people? Gonna want tents? Extra blankets? How much coffee you think you're gonna need?"

"Uh...twenty...pounds? Or so?"

The man sighed. "Kid, with one person you're gonna need at least ten, however many people you're bringin' you're gonna need to figure that out. You goin' by yourself?"

"Actually, there are ten others," Jack said, happy that this, at least, was a question he could answer with some confidence.

"Lordy," the man whistled. "Look kid, this is gonna take some figurin'—you gotta get cornmeal, bacon, sugar, flour, lard, salt, beans, hardtack, shot—not to mention livestock, wagons—you're gonna need at least two—rope, spare tongue, spare axle, couple spare wheels too...be straight with me, kid. You got any idea what you're doin'?" Balefully, Jack shook his head.

The man sighed. "That's what I thought. Now, if you excuse me, I got better things to do." And before Jack could inquire just what he had to do that was more important, the man cupped his hands and hollered to somewhere in the back of the shop: "Gwen! You got a customer!"

A few moments passed, with no response. "GWEN!"

Still nothing.

"GWENDOLYN O'LEARY, HAUL YOUR CARCASS OUT HERE BEFORE I DO IT FOR YOU!"

While Jack was wondering how anyone could ever manage to consume ten pounds of coffee, Gwen, precariously balanced on a turned-over bucket in the dim light of the storage room, trying very hard to concentrate on Edmond's escape from Chateau d'If, was beginning to wonder just how she had ended up in Independence in the first place. Of course, she reminded herself—she was waiting. By now she was an expert at it. After three years, anyone would be: waiting for word from her parents as she watched Independence grow around her from a little frontier town into a place not much better the city that she had tried to escape. She had dreamed of adventure: the open prairie and the wind in her hair, wild horses and mountains and rivers and space.

Instead, she was selling nails.

Not that there was anything wrong with that. There was a lot to be said for selling nails, actually. In fact it could be quite interesting sometimes.

All right. Fine. Never.

With a sigh, Gwen set down "The Count of Monte Cristo," stood up, brushed herself off, and went out to the front of the shop. More nails.

Jack was leaning casually against the counter when the girl came out, haphazard auburn curls held back ineffectually by a limp white ribbon, a black smudge on the ridge of her cheek. She sighed, pushing up her sleeves. "What's going on, then?"

"We got a customer, Gwen. This is--" the man waved his arm casually at Jack, currently inspecting a well-oiled shotgun behind the counter, wondering to himself if he would manage to take down any wild game with a slingshot.

"I'm Jack," he said, smiling, still trying to make a good impression.

"Right," the man said. "Jack's headed west. Oregon. Think you can help him out?"

"Sure," she said, looking Jack up and down. "Traveling alone?"

"No. There are, ah...eleven of us."

"Big family?"

"Kinda."

Taking out a slip of paper and flattening it against the counter, Gwen began to write out some calculations. "All right...eleven...you're probably going to need two wagons for that many, a conestoga would be ideal but if you can't afford that you can just buy a couple farm wagons and adapt them..."

"How much'll that be?"

"Conestoga? I'd say about seventy dollars apiece. Farm wagon would run you about thirty, not counting the cover, but I know a place where you can probably get it for twenty."

"Right. Farm wagons, then."

Gwen bent back over, and jack almost could have sworn he saw her faintly smiling as she wrote out a list for him in lightly-penciled shorthand, and Jack bent over to look at what she was writing, their heads bent over the countertop. She offered him a running commentary as she continued:

"Now...average person would need about a hundred and fifty pounds of flour for six months, fifty pounds of bacon, forty pounds fruit...oh, and you'll want rice and beans...so multiply that by eleven...carry the six...and then you'll figure for allt he other essentials...we've got a package you could get, hunting equipment, spare parts, kitchen things...and that comes to..." she raised her head up, smoothing her hair back. "Five hundred even. And of course you'll want oxen as well."

From the stricken look on Jack's face, she could tell that this would take some extra figuring.

In a little over an hour they had it all planned out. They pulled a few strings, skimped on some nonessential items, and in the end Jack still had a tidy sum left over that he could use once they arrived. He smiled appreciatively as they made the final deal. It was all coming together.

They didn't speak as they were planning it out, beyond conventional shoptalk, and when Jack broke the silence and attempted some charm, it came out awkwardly. "How d'you know all this?" he asked her, gesturing vaguely at the neatly ordered store, with its racks and shelves, not a thing out of place. "I mean...figurin' this all out. I never coulda done that."

"Let's just say I've had a lot of practice," Gwen said lightly, reaching up and taking down a box of nails.

"How long you been woikin' here?"

"Three years, I guess. You know. A while."

"Don't you ever wanna go further? You know—pack up an' see the country for yourself, instead a' just helpin' other people do it?"

She looked at him levelly. Faced head-on, he recognized a certain reticence about her, stronger than the girlish shyness he was used to encountering—she took a while to warm to people, and you needed to be careful if you wanted to gain her trust. But then she looked down, put the nails on the counted, and shrugged lightly, keeping her eyes from meeting his. "Not really," she said.

He kept quiet. Pursuing this any further would be a bad idea. Instead he looked back at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak.

She cleared her throat and looked up at him again. "Well," she said quietly. "You're going to want to buy some candles..."

And things had gone that way. Sitting late that night under the sky, shivering slightly from the Spring wind and taking an experimental sip from his bottle of whiskey, Jack went back once again in his thoughts and scolded himself about what he could have said. He was so deep in his thoughts that when he heard footsteps making their way towards him, and eventually saw Gwen, burrowed deep in her coat with a jar clamped under one arm, emerge from the darkness, it took him a moment to realize that she was here in real life.

"Heya," he said, sitting up a little straighter. "What're you doin' out here so late?"

With a smile, Gwen sat down next to him, and handed him the jar. "I just remembered, I forgot to give you something."

"Pickles?" Jack said incredulously, staring at the contents of the jar.

Gwen nodded. "You'll need them," she said. "For protein."

"How much?"

"On the house." Gwen leaned up against the wagon, resting her head on the side, looking at him sleepily.

"Well, thanks. I dunno what ta say. Y'know, it's not often a goil'll give me a jar a' pickles. Ta be honest I'm not quite sure what t' make of it."

"It means good luck," she said firmly.

He looked over at her. From where he was sitting he could see all too clearly the roots that she was sending deep into the ground, making attachments in a world that held to attachment for her. He should know. He had spent all his life doing the very same thing.

"How can you look at that?" he said. "How can you look out there and not want to see what's further off? Dontcha ever just wanna pick up an' leave this behind, go find a new life."

"Of course," she said. "Of course I do. All the time."

"Then why not give it a shot?" Jack asked. He had told her, early that afternoon, about how he had come to be the unofficial leader of the most motley crew ever to set off on the Oregon trail. Looking at her, he felt that even though he didn't know the specifics—left behind three years ago by her parents, waiting ever since for her ship to come in—he knew her story just as well as his own.

She stiffened. "Because. There's a difference between dreaming about something and...and actually doing it."

"No," Jack said. He reached out and tucked a loose curl that had fallen across her cheek back behind her ear. If anyone knew about dreaming, it was him. And looking into her dark eyes that night, he knew that she had waited long enough; he knew she was ready. She had been dreaming long enough. "No. There ain't no difference, Gwen. Ya just gotta know when th' time is right."

--

When the sun rose the next morning, all the newsies knew it was for them. It was a sunrise blazing and bright and full, a sunrise meant to greet eleven toughened, yearning boys who were about to depart from everything they had ever known. the sun and the wide blue sky, the dry grasses and the cool breeze. All of it was theirs.

The wagon train departed from Independence just after sunrise. Everything was taken care of, animals, supplies; Jack was up handling the oxen for the first wagon, with Skittery taking care of the second. Buck had shown him what he needed to do and he was confident that he would be fine for at least fifteen minutes or so. With the morning fresh and the open prairie stretched out in front of him he could almost forget how Gwen had left the night before, saying clumsy goodbye, stumbling with the awkwardness that always came when you trod on a broken dream. It was still there in the back of his mind, as it had been since waking. But he looked towards the horizon, tightened the reins in his hands, and closed his eyes.

...They were off. It was indescribably: the thunder of the oxen's hooves hitting the ground, those soft-eyed, baleful creatures suddenly seeming powerful enough to send vibration deep into his very core. He could feel the wind in his hair, see the sun in the sky—his western sky. It was hard to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming—and when he looked back over past the canvas-covered side of the wagon, it was even harder. Plunged forward, running along side, a carpetbag slung over her shoulder, was...

"Gwen!" Jack shouted, doing what was probably the most unsafe thing in the world and leaning out, extending a hand to her. With one final sprint, out of breath, cheeks burning, she grabbed hold, and he lifted her up next to him. Still disbelieving.

"That was unexpected," he managed.

Looking over, panting, laughing breathlessly, Gwen looked over, grinning, her carefully-constructed veneer gone. "I thought about what you said."

"Well, you're with us now. You ready for this?"

"I was born ready."

"That's what I thought." Jack grinned. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he had ever felt so free, so alive. looking out past the heads of the oxen and the other wagons, far in front, he could see Kathryn on her horse, galloping fierce and wind-fast in front of everything, kicking up dust, leaning far and low, close down to Blaze's neck, reveling in the beauty of it all. She was singing her heart out, voice rising in peals the fell far above the thunder of the hooves, drifted over everyone's heads and up into the violent blue zenith of the heavens.

_Well, I was born with a dark cloud above me  
A longing deep in my soul  
I was raised up right and I know my mama loved me  
But I begged her to let me go.  
I said: the grass is greener on the other side  
Somewhere there's a bluer sky  
I won't stop runnin' till I'm satisfied  
And if wishes were horses, I would ride, ride, ride._


	3. You Can Lead a Horse to Water

Chapter Two—

You Can Lead a Horse to Water...

--

"Jack, let me take the reins."

"What're you talkin' about? I'm doin' fine."

"Are you kidding? Jack, look—"

"Gwen, I think I know what I'm doin' here."

"Well, I don't think you do."

"Just...let...me...do it."

Gwen settled back in her seat, looking at the wide prairie stretched in front of them, silent a moment. "Jack, do you realize we haven't argued for fifteen seconds?"

"It was twenty. Shut up."

Suppressing a laugh, Gwen still couldn't help but smile faintly. It was the beginning of their third day on the trail: the nights cold and windy, the days long and hot. Even after such a short time she woke up as exhausted as she had been the night before. In the mornings as she rode on the wagon alongside Jack, she was almost blinded by the brightness, the glances of sunlight that stretched golden across her wind-burned cheeks. All she and Jack ever did was argue: about everything and nothing at all, things just as trivial as how to hold the reins, or what time it was, or the proper word for stirrups. He was infuriating, the way he would smirk as he reached out and tussled her hair, called her a yokel and refused to listen to any advice at all. In the evening, as the sun set in a crimson blaze, he would help her as she hopped down from the front of the wagon, even though she told him not to, and then take her around the waist, and waltz with her across the endless prairie. And at night she fell into her tent, asleep before she could even close her eyes. It was an impossible existence, even now she could see: catch-as-catch-can and unending and raw, leaving her each day sore, and beaten, and blind.

All in all, she had never been happier in her life.

--

_Along about eighteen twenty-five  
I left Tennessee very much alive  
And I never woulda made it through the Arkansas mud  
If I hadn't been a-ridin' on the Tennessee stud..._

_The Tennessee stud was long and lean  
The color of the sun, and his eyes were green  
He had the nerve and he had the blood—  
And there never was a horse like the Tennessee stud_

--Traditional bluegrass song

--

The greatest outlaw in the American west was hotfooting it out of Missouri. Mounted on her trusty steed, the great Sapphire Eyes was on the run, kicking up dust in her wake as she galloped further and further away from her captors. The sun was harsh on her back; it was tough now, and the going would only get tougher: but she had no fear. As she urged her horse faster and faster towards the horizon, she looked up, almost blinded by the bright morning sun but refusing to flinch: what lay ahead was her future...

And here the narrative stopped for a moment as the great Sapphire Eyes-- terror of the bible belt, murderer, gypsy, thief, and all around tough cookie—looked over her shoulder at the barren ground that raced past behind her, startled by a sudden breeze that had blown her cap right off of her head.

With a sigh and a muttering of an obscenity so complicated that the knowledge of no less than five foreign languages would be necessary to plumb its full meaning, the outlaw queen of the western world turned around and raced back the way she had come, holding tight to the reins as she bent down low enough to snatch her cap up from the ground.

Regaining possession of the last of her sole effects—the only other things she owned in this world being seven stale Circus Peanuts currently residing, her faithful steed, Apollo, and the meager contents of her covered wagon, currently being handled by one Mush Meyers (title as yet forthcoming), the greatest outlaw in the American west turned back around and headed towards the horizon, no more than a blur against the sugary late- morning sky.

Not all of this was strictly true, of course. But the way Sapphy saw it, as long as it sounded good, accuracy didn't matter all that much. And "the greatest outlaw in the American west" did have a certain ring to it, even if, in all truth, she most likely would have barely made it into the top twenty, and even then on a good day. But if you were going to narrate your life, it might as well be a worthwhile story. And besides, most of the rest was true enough—she was on her faithful steed, her last possessions a ragged cap, seven stale Circus Peanuts (six now; she had eaten one), and eight hundred dollars hidden in a sock at the bottom of a steamer trunk. And it was true, too, that she was headed west, chased by nothing but her own wanderlust as she rode on the fringe of one of the last great wagon trains headed for Oregon. Although she was hardly being discreet about it. She had had her fair share of quick escapes, and threading through the stream of wagons at breakneck speed wasn't the best way to split town.

Then again, it was a hell of a way to make an entrance.

And people did notice her. Girls hopping from the back of their wagons stopped to look up, the fathers driving the oxen; almost everyone saw something, even if it was just a streak, some piece of motion and sound too fast to be caught by the naked eye. Only Checkmate, who noticed almost everything, pieced together a clear picture, although it was really the horse she saw first. He was a magnificent creature—an Arabian, golden in color, lean and muscled; to see that horse thundering across the prairie in all its elegance and speed was a thing of beauty. The rider was crouched low, nipping at its sides with her heels, pure speed; she could control him, and unconsciously Checkmate admired her a little bit on sight, just for that. She squinted to catch a better view through the morning brightness, with one hand on the reins and the other shading her eyes—but in a whirlwind of dust she lost sight of both horse and rider, and by the time the air had cleared, they were gone.

Walking along at the rear of the wagon train, Racetrack was one of the few people who missed getting a glimpse of the rider weaver her way through the schooners and weary travelers littering the hard-packed earth of the trail. In fact, for the better part of that morning he didn't see much of anything at all. He was far too busy concentrating on looking at his feet, taking one step at a time. In all it would be two thousand miles to Oregon City, and they would be walking most of the way. In the few hours since he learned this, walking had jumped from eighth place to second on his definitive list of things he hated, losing out only to wet socks. (Race liked to think that he would hold up well under torture. He didn't mind getting banged-up and bruised, and he wasn't any sissy when it came to hard work—but make him walk around in wet socks, and he'd cave in five minutes and tell you everything you wanted to know.)

After forty-eight hours on the trail, Racetrack was starting to have his doubts. It wasn't that he didn't like where they were now, because that wasn't true; he thought it was beautiful. Maybe he almost loved it: the dry grass blowing in the wind and the rolling hills, the dusky night sky wild with stars and the ragged sweet william blossoming on the plain. If he shielded his eyes from all the people and wagons and oxen, and looked away to where it was empty and endless, he could believe that he was the only person in the world, and begin to understand why almost every song written out here was about loneliness, and love for a place big enough to accommodate any dream. He had never been homesick a day in his life, but he was starting to feel that way now. He had never felt lonely, and now, for the first time, he felt loneliness too—he missed the city, the way you could never really feel that you were by yourself. And what he wouldn't give for a cup of coffee, a racing form, and a bag of Circus Peanuts from behind the counter at Blumenthal's.

"Circus Peanut?" an anonymous voice offered, coming up on him from behind and somewhere to the left, and causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.

Race looked over to see a girl looking up at him with lively muddy-green eyes, a pointed little face neatly camouflaged by a battered wide-brimmed hat, somewhere near smiling as she held out a rumpled paper bag to him. "Hi," she said, almost as an afterthought.

Not willing to pass up a conversation after a good two hours without human contact of any kind, Race smiled back. "Hiya. You always sneak up on a guy dat way?"

"The way I see it, he's either gonna run or stay put. That way ya know from the beginning what kinda person you're dealin' with." She reached a hand into the bag and pulled out something in a noxious orange shade, spongy and peanut-shaped—nature's perfect food. Popping it into her mouth, she extended the bag to him once again. "It's a weakness," she confessed. "Incurable sweet tooth."

"Yeh, me too," Race said, reaching in and taking out a few for himself. "I'm Racetrack," he said at last, once his teeth could come properly unglued from each other, at least enough to talk.

"Misery," she said.

"Huh?"

"That's my name."

"What kind of a name is Misery?"

"What kind of a name is Racetrack?" she countered, without missing beat.

"...Good point. So c'mon, though, what's your real name?"

She looked for a moment as if she was close to telling him, and then smiled devilishly and reached out, thumping the brim of his cap. "I'll tell you when you're older, how's that?"

Well, that was fine, in Race's opinion. They walked together a while after that, just making small talk, quick conversation. And things might have gone that way for a lot longer if Spot hadn't walked by, using his stupid cane like it was a shillelagh, waving at both of them and smiling impishly before he disappeared behind a wagon.

Racetrack looked over as soon as Spot had passed, not really knowing what to expect, but knowing enough to expect something. Misery hadn't swooned-- she was too tough for that kind of thing—but she was staring after Spot in a way that made Racetrack realize, even though he had only known her for a grand total of forty-five minutes or so, how well she and Spot would go together. He could imagine it perfectly: they would fight like tomcats for two weeks, make up, fight again, have a few hours of passionate kissing and then fight some more. A match made in heaven, as far as he was concerned.

"Go ahead," he said at last.

"...What?" Misery said vaguely, still staring at the place where Spot had been a few seconds ago.

"Go ahead. I ain't stoppin' ya."

She smiled at him, handing him the rumpled paper bag and already beginning to take off. "I owe ya one."

"You sure as hell do." He grinned, and with that she jetted away, kicking up clouds of dust in her wake.

Racetrack sighed, alone once again. He didn't envy Spot anything; he wished both of them well—or at least as well as he could wish them if Spot Conlon was half of the equation. But it was nice to have a friend out here to talk to when things got rough, just to keep the loneliness at bay.

But failing that, he could always have Circus Peanuts.

--

In the end, Mush did get his title. For being sucker enough to take the reins of Sapphy's wagon for most of the day, and for valiantly steering the oxen with more natural ease than Duane Street's own cowboy could muster in building a fire, Mush Meyers became Mush the Pure, Defender of Innocent Women on the Missouri Frontier (or just Mush the Pure for short). Or, that was what Sapphy (The Greatest Outlaw in the American West, et cetera) said.

"Sapphy?" Mush asked, leaning up against the taught canvas covering of the wagon as he took a bite of one of the impossibly hard wheat crackers that Jack had bought in bulk for the trip. "You really think you count as an 'Innocent Woman on the Missouri Frontier'?"

Sapphy took a moment to consider this. It was after dark, the sky gone all purple, the lamps all lit. She was tethering Apollo for the night, even though she hated to tie him. But if she didn't, then she had a good chance of losing him; he was a good horse, and the only thing she had to remember an old friend by. It was far too easy to go stir-crazy out here.

She ran a hand over his warm golden flank, glistening in the darkness, and smiled as he gently nuzzled her cheek. "Probably not," she said at last, turning to Mush. "But 'Mush the Pure, Defender of Sarcastic Bitches' just doesn't sound as good. Circus Peanut?"

"Don't mind if I do," Mush the Pure said amiably, reaching out and taking one from her palm. Apollo regarded the exchange with interest, in the end deciding that his bran mix was a lot more appetizing than something nuclear orange in the shape of a deformed peanut.

Suddenly, from the other side of the campsite, a strangled cry could be heard. A few moments later, a breathless Kid Blink ran up from behind Sapphy's wagon, looking for Mush. "Jack had a little problem building the fire. He's gonna, uh...he's gonna need some help."

"Yeh, I heard."

Sapphy rolled her eyes. "Boy, would I like to meet this guy..."

"Y'know, ya really wouldn't," Mush said, already walking off with Blink.

Sapphy smiled. "Bye, boys."

"Bye, Sapph..." and then, more faintly, a cry of surprise, followed by orders to get a bucket of cold water, fast. Sapphy just laughed, and went back to currying Apollo.

After a while, from the corner of her eye, she saw someone coming towards her. Expecting Mush the Pure, she looked up with a word of greeting on her lips, and was surprised when she saw a girl about her age, with hair pulled tight away from her face and lovely soft blue eyes, leading a dusty brown mare behind her.

"Did you see them over there, tryin' to build a fire?" Sapphy asked, working on stifling a laugh as she heard a muffled shout from the other side of the campground.

"No," the girl said ruefully. "I heard them, though, when I was out riding. They sounded like they were...having some trouble," she finished, making a good attempt at tact.

"Well, it's a long trip," Sapphy said. "Maybe they'll improve."

"Let's hope so," she laughed.

Sapphy extended a hand to shake. "I'm Sapphire Eyes, the gre...I'm Sapphy," she finished.

"I'm Checkmate."

"Nice to meet ya."

Checkmate bent to tether her horse for the night, looking at Apollo as she worked. "That's a beautiful horse," she said at last, standing up again. "Is he an Arabian?"

"Why not?" Sapphy said amiably. She had, at that point, absolutely no idea what breed he was, nor did it matter much to her. All she knew that he was strong, and lovely, and faithful and carried her where she wanted to go.

"Where did you get him?" Checkmate asked, reaching out a hand and stroking Apollo's withers while he regarded her thoughtfully with clear green eyes.

"A gift from an old friend," Sapphy said, not revealing much. "Best birthday present I ever got."

"I bet," Checkmate laughed. Apollo nickered appreciatively, enjoying her touch.

They stood in friendly silence for a while after that, both pretending that they weren't listening to the ruckus on the other side of the camp, as the boys tried to light a fire.

"GOD DAMMIT, JACK, DAT HOITS!"

"WELL, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TA KNOW IT WAS FLAMMABLE?"

They were both trying to outfake each other, seeing who would be the first to suggest going over. Checkmate caved first. She looked up at Sapphy, eyes innocent as sin: "you think they need any help?"

"Well, we could always just point and laugh..."

"Let's go."

As the two girls walked off into the darkness, headed towards the first real entertainment they had had in days, another figure emerged from the night, coming in the opposite direction. Breathing a weary sigh, Racetrack walked up close to Apollo, resting his head against the horse's strong neck, petting him gently around the ears. God, he needed a break.

There was something about horses that always seemed a little lonely. Or made him feel that way, either one. Racetrack closed his eyes, feeling the warmth and strength against his skin. The horse nudged at his head gently, his muzzle velvety. It was a perfect, golden thing, helpless and brave, and in that instant Race knew he was the lonely one here; because you never feel lonely, not if you can run at the horizon until your breath can't come anymore, not if you've got eyes like that, and a beautiful girl to care for you. Racetrack moved away. He was empty. He was beat. He was going to bed.

A moment later, the two girls emerged from the crackling night, a distinct, greasy odor of smoke still on their clothes. Laughing and talking, comparing strands of burnt hair, they came back in the instant that Racetrack disappeared, blotted out by the deep spring darkness.

--

A/N: This has officially been The Circus Peanuts Chapter. And for those of you who are ready to sic the historical accuracy police on me, I'll have you know that I've done my homework, and Circus Peanuts (those pale-orange, peanut-shaped, banana-flavored marshmallows that taste best when they're about three years old) were actually around in newsie times, sold in bulk at candy stores and available only in spring. Now that's home cookin'.

Will Sapphy and Racetrack ever meet? Will Gwen still have feelings for Jack even after his eyebrows have been singed off? Will Dakki EVER stop using candy as a plot device? (Probably not.)

And as I'm having a bit of a sweet-tooth attack right now, every reviewer will be rewarded with a fresh-from-the-grocery-store banana cream pie, to either throw at me for not updating in so long, or eat—not to mention a say in whether Dustin Diamond or Dean Portman will striptease for the audience in the next chapter, as the author's way of saying thank you for not throwing banana cream pies at her (hint, hint).

Personally, I think Dustin Diamond is just about the ultimate sex god. But, then again, I actually do like Circus Peanuts...


	4. Straight From The Horse's Mouth

Chapter Three—

Straight From the Horse's Mouth

--

_Who wants a pancake,  
Sweet and piping hot?_

_Good little Grace looks up and says,  
'I'll take the one on top.'_

_Who else wants a pancake,  
Fresh off the griddle?_

_Terrible Theresa smiles and says,  
'I'll take the one in the middle.'_

--"Pancake?" by Shel Silverstein

--

Breakfast was seldom uneventful on the trail. And at the meal celebrating the wagon train's crossing of the Kansas border, things were barely contained. Fear, anxiety, triumph, pride, and bacon grease all came together in a way that made even the late sleepers sit up. (But then again, bacon generally has that effect on people.)

Jack was the first of the boys to wake up. Even in mid-April, nights on the trail were cold, and he was shivering in his tent as the blazing sun rose up in the sky, pulling his blankets tight around himself to try and milk as much warmth from them as he could. But long underwear coupled with a damp spring morning isn't a good combination no matter which way you slice it, and when the smoldering scent of the cooking fire wafted over to him, along with the promise of heat and a little breakfast, he heaved a sigh and got up out of his tent.

When he walked over to the fire a few minutes later, he was greeted by a pleasant sight. Their wagon train leader, Buck Mulligan, was slaking the already roaring fire, adding more kindling here or there while he concentrated on the task at hand—on a makeshift griddle of sorts, he was pouring batter from a blackened pitcher, ladling out pancakes to cook over the fire. Jack smiled, yawning sleepily as he sat down on a rough-hewn stool brought in for breakfast. He couldn't remember the last time he had pancakes.

Seeing him come over, Buck cracked a smile. "Nothin' like flapjacks first thing in the mornin', is there, Kelly?"

"Flapjacks?" Jack said in puzzlement.

Buck looked at him like he was about three, gesturing broadly to the pale rounds sizzling over the fire. "These, boy."

"Those are pancakes," Jack said flatly.

"Well, around here, we call 'em flapjacks, but whatever suits ya."

"Fine," Jack said, "but you're cookin' pancakes."

"When I'm the one buildin' the fire, boy, they're flapjacks."

This struck a nerve with Jack. Even though his eyebrows had grown back beautifully after last week's campfire adventure, since then he had been forbidden to go within five feet of an open flame, instead relegated to the ignominious task of buffalo chip collecting. He sighed, leaning back a little on his stool, and looked Buck straight in the eye. "They're pancakes."

This could have gone on for a very long time (in fact, for a while, it did). But at some point, someone had to wake up and settle the argument. It just happened to be Gwen's bad luck that she was the natural early riser in the group. And when you're stumbling out of your tent at six in the morning, a topcoat on over your nightgown, your hair a mess of snarls, the first thing you want to hear isn't two men arguing about the correct terminology for a breakfast food.

There was dead silence as Gwen wandered over to the cook-fire, both parties waiting for her to cast the tie-breaking vote. And who could blame her, really, for sitting down next to Jack, leaning over to look at what was cooking, and murmuring in happy surprise: "oh, look, hotcakes."

Jack made a strangled sort of sound and held out his plate for a pancake (or flapjack, or hotcake, or whatever). And it's to his credit that he managed to leave the argument alone until Racetrack ambled over, pulled up a stool, and sat down, reaching out to warm his hands over the fire. Innocently, Jack leaned over, and quietly asked him what they were having for breakfast this morning, and to please choose his words wisely.

"Um...griddlecakes, ain't it? Gee, I love those."

"NO!" Jack screamed in frustration. "God dammit, Race! PANCAKES!"

And Racetrack, who had never been much of a morning person anyway, recoiled in surprise and fell backwards off of his stool, his fall to the ground luckily broken by a pile of buffalo chips.

After that, Jack decided to abandon the argument, at least for the next few hours.

It didn't take long for their group to grow greatly, and anyone who had a tin plate to their name was welcome to join. The pancakes—or hotcakes, or flapjacks, or griddlecakes, or whatever else you might want to call them—were wonderful, perfect airy rounds coming from a seemingly inexhaustible source of batter, and sweetened with wild choke-cherry preserves. They were barely out of their first week on the trail and rations were still plentiful—there were fresh hen-eggs to fry up, edges crisp and lacy with sputtering fat, rashers of bacon to set sizzling on the hot griddle, and thanks to one family's old dairy cow, enough cold, sweet milk to fill everyone's cup.

It was a beautiful day, cool and dry, the only sound outside the circle of wagons the whispering of the wind in the dry prairie grasses. A cloudless sky was promised, with no further obstructions. They were making good time, and would probably reach Hollenberg's outpost by that afternoon, Buck said, with luck and a little elbow grease.

None of them had the slightest idea what Hollenberg's outpost was, of course, but it was still cause for celebration. People from all around the wagon train crowded next to each other on makeshift stools and benches, included in the morning's events so long as they had a tin plate to their name.

And so while Specs and Dutchy hotly debated the formula for the perfect pancake—("It's gotta be charred—y'know, blackened.")—Racetrack tucked into his fried eggs, the bad mood that had been following him around for the better part of the week lifting just a little. Next to him Kid Blink was trying to lure Mush into conversation, but the Pure One didn't hear a thing, captivated as he was by the sight of the red-haired girl from another wagon, who was talking to her friend, who wouldn't stop looking at Blink. Snoddy was talking quietly to a sweet-faced girl with golden freckles who he would say nothing about to the other boys but her name—Deanie—however much they prodded him. He was telling her, shyly, his one and only joke, rewarded with soft laughter ("So the woman says to the telegram guy, 'Oh, please sing it, I've always wanted a singin' telegram,' and the guy says, 'no, I couldn't,' but she insists—so he does a little two- step and sings, 'la, la la, your sister Rose is dead, la, la la la, la la...'"). Lute was explaining to Snitch how Prometheus got his name—("So they chained him to a boulder, and every day an eagle would come...")—and Skittery was surreptitiously maneuvering himself closer to Checkmate, who was eating her pancakes, completely unaware. Spot and Misery had finally stopped the argument that had been going on for the past two days, although whether it was just from sheer exhaustion nobody could tell. And Jack and Gwen, content that no-one was looking, were sitting close together in sweet silence, their fingers laced together, hidden beneath their plates.

Even at seven in the morning, after a cold night of little or no sleep, it's difficult to resist the scent of bacon frying as smoke curls and unravels in acrid plumes all through the wagon train, beckoning you towards something wholesome and warm. If anyone wasn't drawn to the campfire that morning, it was only because they had something much more important to worry about. Like repairing a broken wheel on one of the wagons, or tending to a sick animal, or writing a letter to a loved one.

Or, in Sapphy's case, fighting tooth and nail for her life.

The Great Sapphire Eyes was in danger as she never had been before. Surrounded on all sides by water, dark and impenetrable, she had to struggle to survive, to break the surface and save herself. She had been holding her breath for so long that time had lost all meaning to her. She had been under the water forever; she would never have another breath of air. Dread clouded her mind. She had lost all hope, but still she had to hold her breath. One false move, and she was a dead cookie.

The deadly body of water in which Sapphy was about to meet her imminent fate was not, as one might have suspected, a deep lake or a river, or even a stream. Instead, it was a small tin washtub which Mush the Pure had lent to her that morning. Not very frightening, in truth. But then, you had to make due with what you had...

Her heart pounded. Her whole body ached, felt hollow, and she wanted more than anything to breathe, to feel the air rush through her, and then out, in, and out...but she had been holding her breath for a long, long time now. She could hold it just a little bit longer. A little bit longer...

Suddenly, her body fought back, her mouth opening by instinct and trying to take in the water like air, fighting for life. She sat up, choking and sputtering, coughing up water from her lungs, opening her eyes to the brightness around her, and finally, breathing: her lungs taking in air by the barrelful, reveling in it, and for a while not caring about anything else.

She leaned against the side of the washtub, wringing out the hem of her undershirt, getting the water from her eyes. She recognized what was around her, and not from the jumbled few days that stretched behind her in recollection too close to be past. She had broken the surface of the water in distant memory. For a second time, she opened her eyes, and looked around her.

It was winter, but somewhere that winter barely touched, and the sun was bright and cold, brighter in the clear, dusty air. The others were off somewhere, but Chavez was still here with her: sitting on an overturned bucket, sharpening his knife. Turning around slightly, he looked at her abstractedly.

"Well?" she asked.

He pulled out his pocket watch. "Not too bad, Bluebell. Almost two minutes."

Sapphy slid down under the water, trying to hide the fact that she was smiling. "Don't call me Bluebell," she muttered.

"I'll call you whatever I damn well please 'til you can hold your breath under there without panicking." He cut a slice of something with his knife and held it out to her. "Here."

"What's that?"

"Turnip."

"Oh." She took it, munching thoughtfully. "How come you never try to teach me anythin' useful?" she said at last.

"Like what?"

"How to throw a knife."

"Well..." he looked at her, doing his best at innocence. "You might hurt somebody, Sapph. We couldn't have that."

"Gotta make sure that innocent belle of the ball don't hurt anyone, huh?"

Sapphy looked hearing the new voice behind her, and saw a familiar figure standing behind her, next to the washtub. She didn't need to see him to recognize him, not really. She knew his voice.

And his eyes. Nobody had eyes like that...

"Hey! Guess what's for breakfast?"

Sapphy started in surprise as she was pulled roughly into the present. Standing on the grass close by was a girl she had met up with a few days ago—Duck, or Kathryne on paper. She had been keeping to herself lately—giving out a dozen or more titles was a daunting task even on a good day—but she and Duck had gotten to know each other over the subject of horses and had simply moved on from there.

"Um," Sapphy said vaguely. "Turnips?"

"No, bacon. It's gonna be gone soon, too."

"Eh. I hate bacon."

"No one hates bacon," Duck said, and it was true.

"You're right. I just hate mornin's."

She sighed, pushing her heavy auburn hair away from her forehead in the same way she always did when she was frustrated. "I'm not gonna to get you out of that washtub for the world, am I?"

"Nope," Sapphy said, yawning in a contented sort of way as she sank further down in the warm water. "Tell me when the others leave, though. I'd rather not be stranded in Kansas for the rest of my life."

"Understandable," Duck said, smiling. Just as she was about to head off towards the campfire, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a green apple, tossing it to Sapphy. "Don't starve," she called over he shoulder.

Catching it without looking up, Sapphy dropped the apple on the ground, then closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and disappeared beneath the surface once more.

--

By the time the wagons had been set in motion and were continuing on their path across Kansas, the sun was beating down hot and dry, but the last thing Shooter wanted to do was wear a bonnet all day. The sun would make her fair skin dry and coarse and no-one wanted a bride who looked like and Indian squaw—that was what her father said, anyway—but her cheeks were already raw with the prairie winds and her lips cracked and parched with dust. She would be walking two thousand miles this summer, her legs lean and aching, the muscles of her shoulder turned to knots. All she wanted today was to feel the warmth of the sun on her face, and that was what she was going to do.

Pushing the thin muslin fabric off of her dark-blonde hair and letting it trail down her back, she wove her way through the stream of travelers and over to a wagon on the side of the caravan, where her friend Hope was sitting, burrowed between a Dutch oven and a barrel of salt pork, quietly reading the crumpled remains of a grease-blackened newspaper that had been used to pack the cooking pots.

Hope and Shooter had grown up together. They had been born in the same month of the same year and grown up in the same Lower Manhattan apartment building, with Hope on the fourth floor and Shooter on the fifth, so that at night, if one of them couldn't sleep, they could talk to each other through the heating grate. Their fathers had known each other from boyhood, and it was Shooter's father who convinced Hope's family to come on the trail. His younger had been gone some ten years and after years of letters extolling the glory of the West, he had finally been worn down.

"No factories," he had said to Hope's father over dinner one night. "No tenements, no pavement, no poverty. Just air and earth and sky."

For two men who had spent a lifetime of bitter toil in the city, breaking their backs just trying to survive, it didn't take long to decide to pack up and move west. Less than a month later, both families were on the trail, heading towards fortune, whatever that might have been.

"Mornin' Hope," Shooter called as she walked over towards the back of the wagon. Hope looked up and smiled a hello.

"Thought you could get through the whole day without stretching your legs, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't put it past you..." Hope sighed as Shooter hopped up onto the back of the wagon.

"Aw, c'mom," Shooter said, taking the rumpled newspaper from Hope's lap and inspecting it carelessly. "What else would you've done? If you've already read _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ fifteen times and you're down to pawing through all the six-months-old newspaper in the packing crates for something to read...well, a little walking might do you good."

Hope smiled. "That wasn't _all_ I was doing..."

"Oh? What else?"

"Well...I was looking at one of those boys over there..."

Hope still had her bonnet on, its starched white peaks hiding her face in shadow, but Shooter could still see the tips of her ears burn pink as she spoke those words. She looked over to a few yards away, where a few of the boys from the big city group were walking together.

"Oh the New York ones?" she grinned shamelessly. "Which one, then? There are so many, I can never keep track..."

"The lovely one," Hope sighed, her features softening as she looked off into the distance. Shooter followed her gaze to a boy about their age, with dusky skin and fistfuls of dark curls.

"He's got beautiful shoulders," she said.

"He's got beautiful everything."

"A girl in love is a frightening thing to behold," Shooter murmured, grinning as she hopped down from the back of the wagon.

--

The wagon train reached Hollenberg's outpost late that afternoon. It was the first major pit stop after Independence, with a general store, a stables, and a post office. So while the girls looked at new ribbons and the boys looked at licorice and boot laces, Jack went in and picked up a letter from David. It was the first he had had from him since he had decided to go on the trail, and was postmarked March twenty-first, nearly a month before.

Part of him wanted to show it to the boys, to read aloud from it that night so they could hear the words of a friend most could barely remember. But he wanted it to be his and his alone; his secret, somehow—not that there was much to keep a secret, not really. Somehow David's letters to him had been his alone for so long, and he couldn't imagine anyone else reading them now. So he tucked it into his vest and saved reading it until that night, when he could stretch out in his tent, a pale stretch of sky framed by the dusty fabric above him. And then he slit open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and read:

_Jack—  
The rain has let up for a moment, and we are out on the front porch of the house, watching the sun set. Mattie is sitting next to me, one of the barn cats rubbing up against her legs, waiting for her to feed him. She's from the farm down the road, and now at night the light of the sky is reflecting almost violet against her dark hair and I love her, and there is something about being at the farm at apple-blossom time and loving someone and being loved that is greater than anything that we ever knew back in our newsie days.  
When I told the others that you were coming they couldn't quite believe it, and neither can I, not yet. It seems like the strangest thing there is to think of you and everyone else out on the trail blazing west. But in a way, it's the only right thing. It will be October by the time you get here. It almost seems like nothing at all. But at the same time, I know you've waited long enough._

_Always,  
David_

Jack set down the letter, folding it carefully along its creases and slipping it back into the envelope. Rummaging through his things, he pulled out a worn down stub of a pencil and a slip of paper, and began to write just as he had dozens of times before, with simply one detail different: this time, he had something to say.

--

Sapphy was outside when it began to snow that night, and for a moment she almost didn't believe it. It had been a warm spring day, a perfect April afternoon, and never had she known for it to snow so late in spring, but there they were—big, melting-sweet flakes, drifting down, touching her cheeks for just an instant before they melted. She wandered between the wagons, almost entranced, staring up at the sky as they drifted down like the feathers of angelic birds. The campsite was deserted, everyone back at the outpost having a warm meal and picking up letters from the post office. It was almost with surprise, really, when she finally did come across someone else—a boy lying flat on his back, looking up, the snow melting on his face.

It was almost without a thought that she lay down next to him. He had dark hair and deep chocolate eyes like a doe's, and he didn't talk, and neither did she. They lay next to each other on the ground and watched the snow come down, never more than fleeting. And for a long time they stayed that way, just looking up at the sky, together on the grass.


	5. Horse Latitudes

Chapter Four—

Horse Latitudes

--

On the first day of May, the boys decided to test their skills at hunting. They had crossed the Kansas river a few days ago, and even though they had wasted valuable money being ferried to the other side, and would have wasted even more if Racetrack hadn't haggled so relentlessly, they still felt the sense of accomplishment that comes to every pioneer when he knows that he is truly on his way (or her way, as Gwen would not hesitate to point out).

Loath as he was to admit it, Buck Mulligan was proud of the boys for lasting even this long. Even after their all-night poker games, homesickness for the city and squabbles over breakfast, they had all held up remarkably well. The one called Skittery was driving the oxen in the second wagon and learning everything he could about the animals, and Racetrack was out riding almost every night; even Kelly was settling into the rhythms of frontier life, after promising to never again go within five feet of an open flame.

Everything was shaping up beautifully. They had survived their first few weeks on the trail and were halfway out of Kansas, soon to cross over into Nebraska. The prairie lay before them, the world theirs to claim. It seemed only natural that the next step was to learn to hunt.

It was early in the journey, and the rations were still plentiful, the boys' hunting rifles as yet unused; there was no need, just yet, to hunt for food. They boys were all sitting around the campfire one evening talking over cups of coffee and plates of salted ham and redeye gravy, suspecting nothing, when their appointed leader walked over and told them to get out their buckshot and polish up their guns; tonight, they were going hunting.

Which was exactly how Racetrack came to be standing near a wooded copse on the Kansas prairie with Spot and Misery bickering nearby, or at least he told himself that. At the moment, he still had a hard time believing that this was actually happening, let alone coming to terms with how it had come to pass.

"All I'm sayin', Misery, is that there's nothin' wrong with usin' a sling shot."

"Spot. There are about a million things wrong with it."

"Oh, yeah? Name one."

"SLING-SHOTTING IS NOT A VALID FORM OF HUNTING."

"Who says?"

"I do!"

"Did it evah occur to you that maybe, conceivably, you could be wrong?"

"Oh, my god."

"What?"

"Spot Conlon used a word with more than two syllables. I don' believe my ears."

"You always gotta have da last woid, dontcha?"

"I don't know, do I?"

"I think so."

"You do, do you?"

"I do."

"…Do you?"

"AUGH!"

Directing his attention away from the argument, Race looked out towards the horizon, taking in the scenery. Over the past few days the terrain had changed from the open, unprotected golden plains that they had become accustomed to; their were trees now, with new green leaves and spindly branches; there were rolling hills and the sight of bluffs in the distance, and more often than not a stream close to camp where they could drink water so clean and clear and cold it made their teeth ache. They were near to one of these streams now, ostensibly hunting for ducks, which they could see and hear quite clearly, while still being unable to decide on a way to pursue. Spot was set on using his slingshot while Misery wanted to learn how to use the rifle, and all Racetrack wanted was to go back to camp, work on the letter he was going to send to the lodging house, talk to Sapphy a little, and go to sleep in his tent. Slingshot or not, the idea of shooting ducks didn't hold much appeal for him and probably never would.

However, after a lot of argument and a little suggestive brandishing of assorted firearms, Spot and Misery eventually settled on a plan.

"Okay," Spot said to Race, "here's what we're gonna do. You run over to where those ducks are roostin', make a ruckus, scare 'em into flyin' an' then me an' Mis'll both take aim an' we'll see who can bag more game. You got that?" Racetrack nodded. "Right. Now—one…two…three…GO!"

Racetrack tried, he tried. He had never had to scare ducks before, and it wasn't one of those things that came naturally, but God help him, he did put in an effort. He ran forward into the tall grass, waving his arms and squawking and the ducks did take flight—and oh, it all went beautifully for a moment. Both Spot and Misery took aim, intent on their targets, so focused that they barely even took notice when Racetrack gave a strangled cry and began gesturing frantically to them.

"Guys! Guys, HELP!"

Misery began to run towards him, with Spot still sanding rooted, slingshot in hand. "What happened?"

"I'VE BEEN ATTACKED BY A RENEGADE DUCK!"

(Or at least, that was what Racetrack meant to say. But in reality, it's no easy thing to speak clearly when a duck has slammed head-on into your face, wings splayed across your forehead, pecking furiously at you with its beak. So while Racetrack wanted to say "help me, I've been attacked by a renegade duck," it really came out more like: "HLBP M! RJGBNT TCKKD B RNNGDDCK!")

Although, with a large waterfowl clinging to his face, it didn't prove too difficult to get the message across. While Spot stood stock still, all bravado disappearing from his expression, Misery took action, marching forward and wrenching the duck away from Racetrack's face. With barely a thought, she held it tightly around the middle, grabbed hold of its neck, and twisted as hard as she could.

"Y-you killed it," Spot whispered, looking as if he was close to tears.

"It had to be done," Misery said gravely. "This was a killer duck. Who knew what other innocent lives it would have claimed if someone hadn't stopped it?"

Neither of the boys seemed to have an answer for this. While Spot stared at Misery with an expression somewhere between terror and awe, Racetrack rubbed gingerly at what he was sure was a broken nose. "Fellas? A little help?"

With a sigh, Misery handed the Duck to Spot, took Racetrack by the hand, and led him back to the camp to be cleaned up. Both were in such a hurry that they barely heard the mournful keening set loose across the prairie, in a voice thick with unshed tears. It sang an old song, full of love lost and unspeakable sadness; if you listened carefully, you could still hear the words:

"Be kind, to ya web-footed friiiieeeeends…foah a duck may be somebody's muddah…she lives on da edge of da swaaaaammmmp…wheah da weatha, is always damp…"

--

Meanwhile, on another part of the Kansas prairie, Specs and Dutchy were having a slightly more peaceful hunting experience. This might have been partly due to the fact that, unlike Spot an Misery, neither of them had the slightest interest in killing anything. The chance of injury was also greatly decreased by the fact that there were no ducks in sight; they had chosen a relatively quiet spot, and in fact the only wildlife around was a warren of rabbits. While Specs made a show of taking apart his rifle and then forgetting how to put it together again, Dutchy sat quietly watching the rabbits sniff around in the golden timothy grass, so silent that they didn't even notice he was there.

"Look at that," Dutchy said quietly, after a time.

"What is it?" Specs asked absently.

"A bunny!"

"A _what?_"

"A bunny! I mean...uh...a rabbit."

"Right, Dutch."

"See, over there?" Dutchy pointed to a paddock a few yards away where a little brown rabbit, not quite fully grown, was inspecting the grass selection.

"Swell," Specs said, raising the gun to his shoulder and attempting to look heroic. "Let's shoot it."

"WHAT?" Dutchy stared at him in horror.

"Hey, easy, I was just kiddin'. But what else are ya gonna do with it?"

"Well..." Dutchy crouched on the ground, watching the rabbit as it took notice of him for the first time. "I know someone who might appreciate 'im."

"Who's that?"

"...Dreamah..."

"Oh, deah god." Specs rolled his eyes. If he never had to hear about Dreamer again, he would be happy. It wasn't that he didn't like her—she was perfectly fine by him, as pleasant as they come, a girl who looked like an angel and played the Appalachian fiddle like a bat out of Hell. No, he didn't mind Dreamer at all. It was her effect on Dutchy that bothered him.

Because, the truth, quite plainly put, was this: she was turning him into a girl.

Specs watched in disgust as he best friend sat patiently on the ground, the little brown rabbit cautiously coming closer and closer towards him, until, at last, convinced of its safety, it hopped up into Dutchy's lap.

"We gotta get you away from dat goil," Specs muttered.

"Why?" Dutchy asked innocently.

"You just...ain't actin' like yourself."

"But I _like _bunnies," Dutchy pointed out, petting the little rabbit gently its ears. That, at least, was true enough—for as long as Specs had known him, Dutchy had always had a way with animals. Back at the lodging house, he had even had a pet rat named Smokey.

"Anyway," Dutchy continued, as the rabbit snuggled down inside his coat, perfectly content, "it ain't like you're not th' same way with Duck."

Specs suddenly became very interested in something approximately three inches to the left of his shoe. "That's different..." he mumbled.

"How so?"

"On account a' Duck ain't got me actin' all lovey-dovey, cooing ovah _bunny_ rabbits. Duck's a real man. Like me. And it ain't easy to find a woman man enough t' give ya some happiness, these days..." Specs trailed off, not trusting himself to avoid any more mushy stuff, to see Dutchy completely oblivious, staring down at the rabbit in adoration.

"I think I'll name it Violet," he said, dreamily.

"Oh, sweet Jesus..."

--

As it turned out, Racetrack hadn't broken his nose. The real injuries were slightly less dramatic, and once he stopped bleeding Misery didn't have much trouble fixing him up. By the time she was done washing out his battle wounds (and cleaning behind his ears for good measure) the only evidence that something had ever happened was a nasty plum-colored bruise on his cheek and several small cuts on his forehead where the duck had managed to peck at him. Besides that, all he was to worry about was the trouble of explaining what had happened to the others.

"You got attacked by a _wild animal_?" Skittery asked in disbelief. He was currently helping Checkmate to groom some of her horses, with Sapphy standing nearby doing her best to distract them from their work, and Lute standing at the other end of the makeshift stables at the outside of the circle of wagons they made do with every night, trying to convince Snitch to come within a yard of her pony.

Racetrack nodded miserably.

"What kind?" Skittery asked, not even attempting to mask his curiosity. "Cougar? Bear? Wolf? Coyote? Snow leopard?" he added hopefully, not quite familiar with the native wildlife of Kansas.

"Duck," said Race.

"_Duck?"_Lute asked incredulously. "That's funny. She always came off pretty friendly, to me at least."

"No, not Duck," Racetrack corrected. "_A _duck." He flapped his arms for Lute's benefit, and quacked a little. "A duck," he said. "You know, like a duck."

"Yes, Race, I know what a duck is."

"So...you were attacked...by a duck?" Snitch asked, looking as if he was trying desperately not to laugh. "Dat's kinda pathetic, Race, if ya don't mind me saying."

"Oh, _this _from the boy who's afraid of a pony," Lute countered. That shut him up pretty quickly.

Racetrack looked around to see if anyone else was laughing. Skittery had conveniently hidden his face, and Checkmate looked like she was at a funeral, but her shoulders were shaking with laughter and she had tears running down her face. Finally, he looked at Sapphy.

"I had an uncle who was run over by a goat once," Sapphy said with utter seriousness as she hopped up into the saddle. "The way I see it, Race, you're lucky to still be alive."

Racetrack smiled as he got up on one of Checkmate's old mares that she was letting him learn on. "Ready to go for a ride?" he asked.

"Been waitin' for it all day."

And with a wink and a smile that showed all the gratitude that needed to be seen, the two new friends rode off towards the open prairie, serenaded by the lilting song of Snitch and Lute, arguing the night away.


	6. A Horse of a Different Color

A/N: My sisters, it has been many moons. Actually, I'm not entirely sure how long a moon is, exactly, only that you're supposed to walk two of them in someone else's moccasins. Now, just tell me that doesn't sound dramatic…

DALTON: DAKKI!

OKAY! Anyway… (sighs) it's been a while. But now (cue trumpets) I have as much time as I want to spend in fic-land…finals are over…school's through…(sighs happily) and now, along with frequent updates, I can continue in my lifelong mission to count exactly how many times Christian Bale's accent slips in the course of "Newsies".

The current tally is at thirty-seven. It's gonna be _such _a fun year.

DALTON: A long, long time ago…didn't author's notes have a point?

Oh, is that what's bothering you, Bunky?

DALTON: (sobs)

Actually, for once, I _do _have something to say. Can you believe it? (waggles eyebrows McCoyishly) So, three things you should know…

1.) Shout-outs are henceforth at the end of the chappie (they were taking over the fic when left at the front--much like the Blob, only not so closely resembling maple syrup).

2.) Buffalo chips=buffalo poop, to everyone who didn't read the Dear America books in the fourth grade…which is probably everyone (therefore you guys are much, much cooler than me).

3.) …Aaaaand, this one is less information than a cry for help. In a coming chapter, there's going to be a campfire scene which involves a ghost story, and try as I might in a month I haven't been able to find anything that works, and I'm about this close to having one of the characters say:

"In October of 1994, three student filmmakers disappeared in the woods near Burkittsville, Maryland, while shooting a documentary. One year later, their footage was found."

RACETRACK: But…what happened ta Heather?

(sighs) Sooo… if you have a good ghost story, send it in; I'll love you forever.

…But, not that I don't already. (wink)

And now, on with the fic!

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

**Chapter Five—**

**A Horse of a Different Color**

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

> "Are ya sure you don't want any, Race?"
> 
> "Mis, for the thousandth time—"
> 
> "You just look like you need it, okay?"
> 
> "Well, fine, but…"
> 
> "But what?"
> 
> "Misery. I ain't a _goil_."

Misery rolled her eyes. "Race," she said. "Using lip balm doesn't automatically make you a girl. It just means you know how to take care of yourself."

> "Well, you say potato, I say—"
> 
> "Oh, just shut up."

Racetrack grinned, and despite herself, Misery laughed along with him. It was two weeks into May and they were in the last leg of their journey through Kansas, walking along side by side next to the wagon, enjoying each other's company. In the past month and a half they had grown to be close friends, walking together during the day, waking each other up in the mornings, and moaning to each other about the respective objects of their affection.

> "So," Race said, trying very hard to be casual. "Mis, uh…just outta curiosity…"
> 
> "Hmm?"
> 
> "Ya still got any of that lip balm stuff left over?"

With a sigh, Misery handed it over. These past few weeks had brought drier weather than she had ever known before; her skin, as was everyone else's, was dry and sore under the beating sun and the dry prairie wind, and she could barely see sometimes for the dust kicked up by the oxen as they pulled the wagons—but worst of all maybe was what the dry air did to your lips, leaving them raw and parched, so tender that they would crack and bleed whenever you opened your mouth enough to laugh out loud. Hope's mother had been giving out beeswax lip balm that did a lot to soothe the pain, but of course the boys refused to even consider using it—until now, at least.

> "Thanks a lot," Racetrack said, sheepishly.
> 
> "I'll never leave ya, little buddy."
> 
> Wisely, he chose to ignore that one. "So how's Spot?"

"Oh, _Spot_," she sighed, pulling the battered, dingy wide-brimmed hat she always wore away from her face, letting it rest by its strings on her back as her long auburn hair came loose.

> "Oh, _Spot,_" Race mimicked.

"Honestly," she said. "I wouldn't know. After the whole duck incident he was sort of scared of me for a while, but then we got close, and spent a lot of time together, and—"

Race scratched his head. "Uh, Mis? If ya sleep with a lantern in your tent, it casts some pretty interestin' shadows…doesn't leave much to the imagination, if ya catch my drift…"

She blushed, punching him in the shoulder. "Anyway," she continued, clearing her throat. "We sort of had a falling-out, and I haven't talked to him lately…"

Racetrack sighed, thrusting his hands deeper in his pockets and kicking at the dusty ground. He looked up at Jack, sitting at the front of the wagon, Gwen wearing one of his old shirts, frayed and rolled up at the cuffs, resting her head on his shoulder and whispering something in his ear. He smiled that gooney grin of his and kissed her on the forehead--why did love come so easy to everyone else?

"So what about Sapph?" Misery asked suddenly.

"What about 'er?" he said irritably.

"Well?"

He squinted out towards the horizon, watching her thunder across the prairie on her gleaming golden stallion, talking with Checkmate as she rode alongside on her mare, Clover, their distant laugher drifting across the plains.

"Sapphy's…she's a horse of a different color."

"Admit it, Race…"

"Admit what? I'm not gonna say anythin' until—"

> > S
>
>> > > P
>>
>>> > > > L
>>>
>>>> > > > > A
>>>>
>>>>> > > > > > T
>>>>>>>>>>
>>>>>>>>>>> > !

Taking a deep breath, Race looked around to see just who had decided to throw a not-fully hardened buffalo chip in his direction, and wasn't terribly startled to see Lute standing about a hundred feet away, doubled over and giggling hysterically.

"You look really funny when you're angry," Misery observed. "There's this vein in your forehead that kind of stands out; you should really see yourself."

"Race!" Lute shouted. "Be lenient! That wasn't meant for you!"

But before he could say anything at all, he was startled to see Snitch come darting towards him from behind the wagon, looking frantically around. "Hide me," he whispered, and then did his best to crouch down beside Racetrack, which was slightly difficult as Snitch was about eight inches taller.

"WHERE'S MY LITTLE SNITCHIKINS?" Lute shouted at the top of her lungs, holding a buffalo chip aloft.

"Race," Snitch whispered, swallowing nervously. "Ya gotta help me. Lute's on the warpath…an' she's armed."

"Well, I guess I have some bad news, then…" Race muttered, and before Snitch could say anything he scraped what was left of the buffalo chip away from his face, and brought it down squarely on Snitch's head.

"AAH! NOT TH' HAIR, RACE!"

Meanwhile, Misery looked as if she was about to choke to death, she was laughing so hard. It only worsened matters when another buffalo chip came sailing over the top of the wagon and landed on Snitch's shoulder.

"Nice shot, Lutey!" Misery gasped.

"OLLIE OLLIE OXENFREE!" Snitch yelled, picking up a buffalo chip from the ground and hurling it across to the other side of the wagon.

"AUGH!"

He tipped his cap to them, and ran over to the other side to finish what he had started.

Racetrack stared ahead a moment in silence. "So…was that just me, or…did that actually…just…happen?"

Misery nodded.

"Madre del dio!"

"You can say that again," she muttered. "…Y'know…whatever you just said."

He sighed. "Right."

"Is it just me, or could this day not get _any_ more bizarre?"

The words barely out of her mouth, the wagon train leader came hurtling towards them, grabbing Racetrack by the shoulders as soon as he saw him, and shaking him soundly. "We're here! We've made it through—paradise awaits!" And with that, he ran away as fast as he had come, kicking up dust in his wake.

"Somehow," said Racetrack, "I just don' think so."

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

Well, maybe everyone else had gone insane, Skittery thought later, but for once, the old wagon train leader was right on target. That afternoon, they arrived after two relentless hot weeks on the Kansas prairie in Alcove Springs, and paradise was the only word that could ever be used to describe it.

Alcove Springs was an oasis in the very most northwest tip of Kansas, where the dry badlands of the prairie graded into lush grass and spindly spring trees—water flowed cold and sweet into a shallow pool, filtering out in a thin creek before it joined the Big Blue River, which they would be crossing any day now. The girls were bathing in the watering-hole and the boys had been banished to the other side, to rest by the stream in the shade of the poplars and cottonwoods, finally finding a little cool air and shade.

Skittery put his arms behind his head, closing his eyes against the late-morning sun and dangling his toes in the warm mud of the creek-bank. Blink was up daydreaming in a tree somewhere, Jack was a few yards away reading his latest letter from David, and Snoddy was—

--"AAAAH! NOOOO! DA HORROR!"—

--…pushing him into the creek.

Skittery looked up with one eye open to see Snoddy standing on the creek bank, laughing hysterically. Skitts just smiled lazily and rolled around, letting the water seep through his shirt and onto his sunburned shoulders, composing a song about the mud.

"OH! Da lovely sprin' mud is a thriiiiillll to meeeee, it squelches be-tween me tooooooooooooooooooeeees…"

Snoddy wiped his forehead and eyed his friend, currently smearing mud all down the front of his chest and grinning like a lunatic. "Seriously, Skitts…you musta been a pig in a past life."

Skittery made no reply to that, just grabbed Snoddy by his leg and pulled him in as well.

"Hey, it _is _squelchy…"

"Guys!" Jack called suddenly, ruining any chance for a second verse, "listen ta this." Hi picked up the letter and read to them in a mild, pedantic voice which, to his credit, could easily have passed for Davey's:

_…Last week, Sarah decided to go out and pick the cherries from our trees out back for a pie. The trees are covered with fruit, almost too much for the branches to hold—our neighbor down the road says that after an ice storm like we had last winter, it's always a good year for cherries—but problem is, even when they're ripe, they're completely sour—they're only good for cooking. For some reason, though, Les likes them plain, and he's wonderful at climbing the trees. So at first, Sarah tried sending him up to pick them for her and send them down on a colander, but he ate more than he picked, so she gave up on that idea._

_ A few days later, though, she saw an ad in the paper for a cherry picker for rent. I can't imagine what she thought it was—maybe some kind of wire loop or basket, your guess is as good as mine—but until the day I die I'll never forget the look on her face when three workmen showed up in our yard with a machine the size of a bulldozer and a metal cage attached that reached up thirty feet in the air…_

"Imagine Sarah tryin' ta cook," Skittery remarked, idly smearing some mud on his cheekbones so he looked like he was wearing war paint.

Blink laughed. "Didn't she set her hair on fire tryin' ta bake you a birthday cake las' year, Jack?"

Jack smiled at that. "Yeah. It was great. An' then she had this whole explanation 'bout how it was the newest style in France…"

"What happened to the cake?" Skittery asked.

"It died. We had a birthday turnip, though…candles an' everythin'."

"You sure know how to pick 'em…"

Jack grinned. "It's okay. I really like turnips."

"Even so, though…" Skittery settled his chin on his arms, looking up at the sky. "Maybe it's right you shoulda ended it with 'er…"

Jack just laughed a little and kicked at the dirt with the toe of his boot. "'Cept that she ended it wit' me…"

Skittery perked up a little at this. "Really?"

"Are you kiddin'?" Jack said, staring at Skittery in mock-surprise. "A chance ta marry a real-live roughneck farmer, she'll stick with some untitled newsie from Lower Manhattan?"

"Geez," Blink muttered. "Where'd he learn a woid like 'untitled'?"

"You're forgettin' something, Jack," Snoddy murmured.

"Oh? What's that?"

"In a few months…we'se gonna _be _roughneck farmers."

There was a very, very long pause. "…Let's just not think about that one…"

Skittery sat up a little. "Almost makes you wish this'd never end, don't it?"

"How so, Skitts?"

"Well…we've left behind one home, we're goin' to another…could be good, could be bad, y'know, but now…we're free, almost. Like gypsies. It's so great here anyway, and…how could anythin' be better?"

"It is wonderful," Jack said, quietly.

Skittery cocked an eyebrow. "…Know what's even better?"

"What?"

"This," Skittery said, quite calmly, and pulled Jack into the creek with him, depositing a giant mud pie in his hair.

Jack sat in the shallows of the creek, his suspenders hanging loose below his waist, his shirt untucked, looking strangely dignified as he looked serenely up at the sky, smoking his cigarette.

"Ahh," he said, contentedly, taking a drag. "Now this is a life a' luxury."

All over the camp, happiness was being found. Lute and Snitch, having long ago run out of buffalo chips, were now throwing overripe wild strawberries at each other, staining their clothes as if with blood, rolling around on the ground, wrestling—Snitch nipping at the tip of Lute's nose, and whispering in her ear, as if it was a romantic sweet nothing, "put up ya dukes, goilie,"—and Lute doing her best to retaliate, although not going so far as to bite his tongue when he kissed her.

Dutchy and Dreamer were feeding Violet the Bunny cowslip leaves while Specs rolled his eyes at them, and Mush and Hope, out walking in the woods, had their hands clasped together, her bonnet trailing down her back and looking from a distance like wings, her soft red hair making her seem like and angel on fire. The girls where basking in the pool, underneath the waterfall, and Sapphire Eyes of the Overactive Imagination was the lone survivor of a horrendous shipwreck, clinging to a piece of driftwood, desponded over lost lovers, friends, riches, until Racetrack innocently ambled by and she pulled him in, forgetting her sorrows and asking if he wanted to be a mermaid or a pirate.

> "What about a shark?" he asked.
> 
> "No sharks."
> 
> "Well…mermaid, then, I guess."
> 
> Sapphy grinned.

All through the camp, laughter could be heard, whoops and shouts, the sound of water on water, and Snoddy and Skittery's mud duet. In the entire wagon train, only one person wasn't smiling. Far away from all the games and conversation, in the cool, dark shadow of his wagon, Buck Mulligan, their leader, sat scrutinizing his map of the trail, the faint markings of his pencil almost faded with age from the paper.

They were making good time. Alcove springs marked the end of the first quarter of the trail, and with any luck they would reach Independence Rock by the fourth of July. It wasn't that that worried him. What worried him was the forthcoming obstacle—they would reach the Big Blue River in three days, four or five at the most. These boys were the motliest crew he had ever led, and the Big Blue one of the most treacherous on the trail. It was rare that he ever made it across without losing a life…

[TBC…]

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

Shout-Outs!

**Sapphy: **(gasp)Y-you have 'Friends' on DVD? (shyly) …can I come over?

DALTON: (clings)

…You'll have to try harder than that, Nuwanda…

DALTON: (collapses to his knees) …And I am standing here, begging for your forgiveness, holding these couch cushions…MUCH LIKE THEY DID IN BIBLICAL TIMES!

(Squeals) Charlie! You remembered! (glomps)

**Misery: **Aw, Spot's just a softy…

SPOT: (glares)

Plus, I think he's a little threatened that if you could kill a duck with your bare hands, you could probably manage something the same size, like…say…(cough) him! (cough)

**Nada Zimri: **The day that _I _go off cough syrup…(hic)…would be like…(ponders) _the day that I went off cough syrup!_ (falls over)

DALTON: Which…should probably be now.

(groggily) …Okay…

**Duck: **(hands Duck an E-Z Sew) (brightly) You can fix a dropped hem at work!

Hmm…could that be a lyric for the band's hit single?

SPECS: (bangs on his drums a la Animal) E-Z SEW! E-Z SEW!

**Teepot: **(falls over giggling hysterically) And, I'm not even gonna pretend I'm above that…because don't pronouns do that to all us "Newsies" fans? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

DALTON: …You should try helping her with her _homework_ some time…

(sings) The only boy! Who could ever reach me! Was a semi-cute preppie boy! The only boy! Who could ever reach me! Was a semi-cute preppie boy! Yes he was…he was…lord knows he was! (winks)

**Hope: **Aw, you were in this one, see? (points)

DALTON: Dak…she can read, you know…

(blushes) Um. Anyway…

I'm technically Jewish, because it comes from my mother, but I still get both Passover and Easter…depending on which side of the family we visit. Although, my own personal religion is based on the principles expounded in "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure"…

DALTON: "Be…excellent to each other."

(grins) See how I've got him trained?

**Dreamer: **Aw, did a little ego boost ever hurt anyone? I think not. (after reading the review, her head is too big to fit through the door)

Um, Charlie? (pause) A little help?

**Checkmate: **Ack! Wild killer Canadian Geese! Armed! With Hockey sticks! (pause) I don't know whether to laugh my ass off or flee from the border…oh well. (shrugs) Probably both…

DALTON: (grins) Dakki's afraid of swans…

(glares)

**Shooter: **Yay! (throws breadcrumbs to celebrate the bail money)

And, never fear…you shall be in the next chappie, and it shall be dramaticky, with thunder and lightening and smoochiness and bread crumbs…well, maybe not breadcrumbs…(pause) Kinda used all of mine… (grins)

**Sparks****: **(sighs) I love goats too…my family used to raise them, actually, when I was little, and they were always nice to me. Although, did you know that more people are killed annually by _sheep _than by sharks? (pictures a collie dog herding hammerheads across a grassy knoll)

**Ireland****: **But bacon, it's…it's delicious! It's protein-packed! It's the defender of truth, justice, and the American way!

DALTON: Actually, diet-Gestapo,that would be Superman you're talking about…

Oh…whatever. (grins) Besides, anyone who watches all of D3 too just to see the penalty box striptease has to be a kindred spirit.

Seriously, you should _see _the looks on the faces of some of the kids I've baby-sat. (wink)

**me**** lee12: **(grins) I'm glad you liked it. At least all this torturing of Racetrack has gone to a good cause, right?

RACETRACK: (glares)

Um…I'll just walk…this way…now…

**Independent Fire: **However bad your computer is…mine's gotta be worse. It's older than me, and I named it the White Whale. Think that might be unlucky?

DALTON: Well, at least it didn't eat your leg…

Wanna bet?

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

(waves) Come back next chappie…same bat-time, same bat-channel—

DALTON: (cough) Copyrightinfringement! (cough)

--and if you ask extra nice, you might even hear the rest of Skittery's song about mud!

SKITTERY: YAY!

(wanders off into the sunset) Squelchety-squelch, down in the marsh, that is the sound that I love the most…

SKITTERY: (accompanies her on banjo)

(and all is right in the fanfic world)


	7. Changing Horses in Midstream

A/N: Hi-ho, everyone!

(is greeted with a rain of rotted fruit)

DALTON: YAY! MANGOES!

Three things:

1. I'm very, very sorry,

2. Updates will henceforth be much more frequent than this last one, and,

3. Try sending some tangerines over, huh?

And now: in which a storm is encountered, a river is crossed, and an atmosphere is set up that deserves a name like 'IT Lives by Night!' ('Well, IT Shouldn't Drink So Much Coffee', in the words of Crow T. Robot).

Love it. Like it. Don't kill me, at least. Please…I have children…

DALTON: No you don't.

Please…I have Biology class…

DALTON: Yeah, that works.

And now, on with the fic!

* * *

**Chapter Six—**

**Changing Horses in Midstream**

* * *

The minute the Big Blue River came within sight, there seemed to be a change in the air. The clouds had been piling one on top of the other ever since dawn this morning, the air static with electricity. Even the sky seemed to press down heavy upon them, and now, as the wagon train caught sight of the river low in its banks—but it couldn't be that fast, that far, that wide; could it?—the sun was covered by a cloud, blotting out the early morning light. It was just a few minutes shy of noon, but out on the prairie, it was almost as dark as night.

Sitting up at the front of the wagon next to Jack, long legs curled under her skirts, Gwen squinted to get a better look at the river. It was low in its banks after the dry spell that had taken them through most of May, but still a swift little thing, and formidable enough to make Jack clench the reins a little tighter in his callused hands. Meanwhile, Gwen was too fascinated by it all to think of being frightened. As she stared up at the precariously still expanse of the sky, whispering cloud names under her breath—_stratus, cirrus, altostratus, cirrostratus, cumulonimbus, fluffy_—she thought that she could write a whole book about the prairie with no people at all in it, an epic about width and breadth and life, the story of a blade of grass, a leaf, a drop of rain.

"Gwen," Jack said melodramatically, resting his head on her shoulder and looking up at the sky, "do me a favor?"

"Yes?"

"Give me one last kiss, before I die?"

Smiling, Gwen leaned over, looked him in the eyes, and let her kips come just within a hair's breadth of touching his, grazing him just softly on the corner of his mouth, then leaned back and looked out again at the river.

"There. Now you have something to live for."

"…You ruin _everything_."

Just then, Buck bounded up from along the side of the wagon, slapping Mercedes-the-Ox's haunches and looking up at the sky. "Storm on the horizon," he announced, as if it couldn't possibly have occurred to them. "We're gonna have lightning by tonight, mark my words. Perfect day for a river crossing." And with that, he sped towards the front of the wagon train, off to alert the other travelers.

"This is gonna be beautiful," Gwen said, dreamily, and Jack quickly busied himself with looking as if he was about to faint.

* * *

An hour later, Skittery was up to his elbows in the muddy waters of the Big Blue, planting his feet firmly on the riverbed with each step and inching his way across, leading Checkmate's horse, Clover, behind him. After some planning, they had decided to bring the animals across the river before they brought the wagons, the drivers getting out and steering the oxen by hand as the animals waded up to their chests in the swift current, trying to keep them from panicking. (That was Buck's advice, anyway. But, in all honestly, Jack looked a whole lot closer to a nervous breakdown than any of the animals did). But now that all the other horses and mules and crated chickens had been brought across the river, and the wagons had started to plow by, Skittery was still inching across, eyes down, intent on not losing his footing. And Checkmate, of course, was there to make fun of him the whole way.

"So is it really that hard to walk across a river? Is it too _cold_, maybe? Or deep? Where I come from, Skitts, we're used to cold, love it really, which is good because we get frostbite on the fourth of July, but if you can't handle it then—"

"Check, might I remind you that this is _your horse_?"

"…Or maybe I could get you some earmuffs…"

"LOOK! I jus'…want…to do…this…right…"

"Great," she sighed. "A perfectionist with big ears…"

"WHAT?"

Meanwhile, a few yards away, Racetrack was doing his best to help Sapphy bring her wagon across and pretend not to hear Skittery and Checkmate's conversation at the same time. His concentration was broken, however, when a thunderclap resounded through the sky, and he was obliged to leap into Sapphy's arms as a safety measure that was obviously too complex for her to understand.

Sapphy stared at him, her mouth twitching a little. "Race…are you afraid of lightning storms?"

"No," he muttered. "Hey, stop laughing!"

"I'm not," she said, laughing.

Winding the oxen's reins tighter around his fist, he glared at her. "Everyone's afraid of somethin'," he said, resolutely.

"Not me," she said, lifting her hair off the back of her neck with one pale forearm and striking such a pose that Racetrack had to laugh at her.

"Sure, Annie Oakley."

"I'm serious!" she said. "The terror of the bible belt? The robber queen of the west? I fear nothing, be it knife fights, gunfire, storms or cinders…"

"You're never gonna shut up, are ya?"

"Nope."

"Still, you gotta be afraid of _something_."

"Well, all right," she admitted, pulling at Apollo's reins as they neared the halfway mark across the river. "One thing."

"Well, what is it?"

She looked at him a moment, as if judging whether she could trust him with this sacred information. Apparently, he was worthy. Leaning in, she whispered it in his ear almost too softly for him to make out.

He looked at her incredulously. "You're afraid a' FISH?" he asked, loud enough for absolutely everyone to hear. Sapphy just sighed.

Staring intently at the water for a second, Racetrack suddenly plunged his arm down into the river as far as his shoulder, and quick as lightning pulled out something dark, slippery, and unmistakably fishlike, and held it in front of Sapphy's face. "Ya mean like this one?"

"JESUS H. TAP DANCING CHRIST!"

After Racetrack had carefully disposed of the fish in the most sensible manner—going over to Kid Blink, who was dozing on the riverbed, and sticking it down the front of his pants, at which point Blink opened one eye, peered under his waistband, and promptly went back to sleep—and they had managed to steer the wagon and Apollo across the river safely, Sapphy found herself staring at Racetrack with a mixture of horror and admiration that she hadn't felt the likes of since her days with Billy.

"How did you do that?" she asked him at last.

"Oh, that?" he said dismissively. "Quick hands, I guess."

Before she could say anything else, they were interrupted by Skittery racing over, panicked, from what was obviously a heated conversation with Checkmate, leaning down, and gripping Racetrack by the shoulders.

"Race," he said, "tell me I have small ears."

"What? Skitts, I—"

"TELL ME I HAVE SMALL EARS, RACE."

Racetrack looked at him for a long moment. "You have small ears," he said at last.

"Thank you," Skittery said politely, and then skipped over to Checkmate, a triumphant grin on his face.

Half-sighing, half-laughing, Sapphy leaned back against the dry prairie grass on the side of the riverbank and propped her head up with her hand, looking at Racetrack contemplatively.

"Let's get married," she said.

For a full half-second, Racetrack's heart leapt and he knew an emotion somewhere between joy and dread as he thought that she might be serious. Then he realized that that was impossible—Sapphy was seldom serious about anything—laughed, and turned to face her. "Once we get to Oregon?" he said.

"No, now. And let's never go to Oregon," she added. "Let's just travel like this, cross rivers, let's do it forever."

"What'll we do once we've seen all of America?"

"Oh, we'll find a home somewhere, I guess. Wherever we like it best. Settle down in New Mexico, maybe, raise horses…"

"No. I'll drag you back to New York."

"You can _try_," she laughed.

"No, you'll love it there, I promise. I _promise_," he said again, because it seemed just important enough. "We can live at the Sheepshead races, I guess, 'cause they won't let ya keep Apollo anywhere else—we'll find a stall, dress it up, live there. Just a place to come back to."

"We'll see the world."

"We'll see everything. And have some kids too, maybe."

She stretched out low on the grass. "No. No kids."

"Aw, they'll be great though," he said, beginning to picture their imaginary future almost perfectly. "They'll come with us on all our trips…you'll teach 'em to ride, an' I'll teach 'em to play poker. They won't be like other peoples' kids. We'll have to have a lot, of course," he added. "Probably at least thirty. And we'll name them all Gino."

"All thirty?"

"All thirty." She laughed.

He looked at her a long moment. They were lying next to each other on the grass, turned towards each other, and he could see just the way the midday sun played across her face as it slanted through the clouds, making her features shine golden. It seemed the perfect moment to kiss her. And he was just getting up the nerve when a shadow fell across both of them, and he looked up to see Buck Mulligan staring down at them in distaste.

"Racetrack, what in the name of St. Christopher do you think you're doing?"

"Well, I—"

"Because if you think fraternizing with young girls all day is going to get you anywhere, you are sorely mistaken, my height-challenged young friend. We've got a storm rolling in on the horizon!" he shouted suddenly, loud enough to make Sapphy start. "Look at those clouds. LOOK!" Racetrack looked. "I would advise you," he finished gravely, "to erect some kind of stable dwelling. Tonight, it's gonna rain." And with that, he turned skipped off.

Sapphy sat up and began to rub the dirt from her back. "That was impressive, even for him."

"No kidding," Racetrack said. "I had no idea he knew a word as big as _fraternize_."

Sapphy reached over and picked a long blade of grass out of his hair. "I have a feeling he's just disappointed none of us died."

Racetrack leaned back on his elbows, surveying the wagons making their way across the river. "Ya may be on to somethin'."

And then, as if he had just spoken the key words in some ancient curse, Sapphy's pronouncement seemed, for a moment, to be almost too real. Out in the middle of the river, in the swift cold water, where everything had been in control before, there was an explosion of spray, a shout: Race looked over just fast enough to see a head of mussed blonde hair disappear beneath the water. And just a fraction of a second after that, Blink, now awake, dove in after it.

"Oh, God," Sapphy said, unconsciously reaching over and grabbing Racetrack's hand. "It's Shooter. She must've gotten caught in the harnesses."

For one blind moment of panic, everyone stared into the dark water where the two had disappeared. The first sounds of graceless thunder came down from the heavens, and then quieted, and after that, all was silent. Everyone was counting under their breath, imagining Blink working blindly as he must be, unknotting the snags, giving her breath from his own mouth, among the stamping hooves of the oxen, the dark water. And then, as soon as it had started, it ended: he burst forth from the water, dragging her with him, and laid her down on the shore, where she spat up a lot of river water and weeds and a few small fish, and then reached up and kissed Kid Blink as if it was as natural as breathing.

"Excellent," he said, when he came away. "Along with the fish Race put down my pants, we'll be able to fry these up and have a nice catfish dinner."

"That's a trout," Racetrack remarked, because there really wasn't much else to say.

"Catfish," Blink countered.

"Trout."

"Look, why don't we let Sapph settle this—Sapphy, whaddaya say, Catfish or trout?" Blink asked, picking up one of the fish Shooter had coughed up, and waving it at Sapphy, at which point she screamed and dove back into the river.

"Boys," Racetrack said, "welcome to Nebraska."

* * *

The first rain began to fall just as dusk arrived, unmistakable as anything else but a prelude to a storm—the sky was torn apart with the very violence the West was famous for, and let loose its burden in torrents. It only took a few seconds outside to get completely soaked. Snitch was out brushing his teeth when the downpour began, and by the time he got inside he looked as if he had gone for an impromptu dip in the river.

Thunder shook the sky not long after that, and then lightning like they had never known before. Inside the big tent, Skittery lay on his side gazing out at the gray sky just visible through the torn flat that led outside, and counted the seconds between claps of thunder and lightning, counting the miles between them and the storm.

They had been lucky enough to get the tent up just before the storm hit, and even luckier, he thought, that they hadn't been forced to sleep apart tonight, which he didn't even want to imagine the results of. Right after Racetrack had wrestled his tent into submission, Sapphy, emerging from the river like the Lady of the Lake, had remarked casually that she happened to have a tent big enough to accommodate all of them, if he wanted to see if they could put it up. This led to all kinds of strange conversations—"but why would you have a big tent?" "I bought it." "But why did you buy it?" "To put many people in." "But why would you want to…"—but in the end, with Buck's grumbling advice, they got it up just in time, and herded everyone inside: Race and Sapphy, of course, Mush and Specs and Snoddy and Deanie and Hope and Duck and Dutchy and Dreamer and Checkmate and Skittery and Spot and Misery and Jack and Gwen and Lute and a still-soaking Snitch.

It was a monstrosity, a big old faded blue canvas _thing _that seemed to date back at least to the Civil War, whenever that was, Skittery thought. And he was glad, now, that they were here, instead of in their little tents, with their lanterns and their books: instead they were all here, talking, hushed voices--bodies all wend and warmth in the darkness, nested together like rabbits in a warren as they waited for the storm to pass them over. Still, though: it was different from anything he had ever known. Even together. Even here. Back in the lodging house, storms had been frightening enough, with four walls around them and a whole city to keep them company. Out here, it was something altogether different, something that he couldn't quite name.

The only thing in common was that Jack was still outside, as he was whenever the weather did something spectacular and dangerous. Skittery could see him leaning against the taut wall of the tent, tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness as he stared out into the night (how he had managed to even light it in the first place, let alone keep it burning, Skittery had absolutely no idea). A clap of thunder, then a fork of lightning striking somewhere on the vast horizon. Skittery got to his feet, and walked outside.

Jack didn't seem to notice him as he joined him next to the tent, looking out at the sky. The rain was pouring down harder than ever, flooding the river as it leapt from its banks, pounding down on the prairie that stretched flat as far as the eye could see. It was when he looked out like this, at the ground so flat and unending he almost imagined he could see the curvature of the earth, that Skittery wondered how they were all still standing, how they could still be held down and not be swallowed up by the unending violence of the sky.

Racetrack stuck his head out of the tent flap and looked up at them. "What are you guys doin' out here?"

Jack glanced sidelong at him. "I'm daring myself to stay out," he said, "until the lightning passes over." Racetrack shuddered, and just at that moment a bolt of lightning shot down, not more than a mile away, illuminating the entire sky.

"Jiminy," Racetrack muttered, and darted back into the tent.

Shivers went down Skittery's spine; he was drenched to the bone, shaking half from cold and half from fright again. He had always wondered, as everyone else had, why Jack insisted on standing outside the lodging house whenever a storm passed over, out on the street on the one night when everyone else was inside. But just now, as he looked out at the night sky, it seemed to make perfect sense—if you put yourself at the mercy of the elements, you could never forget where you were, forget where you came from. Lightning—what was it? Electricity that came from the sky? He didn't know any more than the next guy did. But it was the most real power left, and standing out there in the dark with the rain beating down and the lightning getting closer and closer, Skittery was giving his life over to nature and forgetting fear, the most important fear there was. The rain came down. Harder. Faster. And the thunder shook the sky. And Skittery knew: once you have experience fear like this, and come out alive, you may never feel the same way, feel so helpless. You may never be frightened of anything again.

He turned to Jack, still intent on the sky, and looked at him a long moment. "Are we crazy for doin' this?"

Jack laughed. "Nope," he said. "We're pioneers."

On the other side, the lightning stuck down.

[TBC…]

* * *

And now, a special "look-no-one-died!" edition of…shout outs!

DALTON: Is there a limit to how many exclamation points you can put to use in a single sentence?

…No, not really.

**Lute**: YOU! (points) …probably saved me from complete slackerdom. (bows down). Darling, where would I be without you?

DALTON: In roughly the same place geographically, but not as happy. Or about to take over the world.

…Take my wife. Please.

**Sapphy**: DUDE! "Whoa" look! (does her best Keanu Reeves) (pause)

DALTON: …

You gotta say it!

DALTON: ...Do I have to?

Yeeeessss….

DALTON: WYLD STALLYNS! (bows)

Thank you. (And as for Mr. The Kid…I'm open for ideas. (sobs) Richard…)

DALTON: You really gotta get over that one.

**Teepot**: NO! (grins) Happy? I don't think it would ruin the suspense at this point to say that not only is Sarah completely out of the picture, she isn't even in the studio, on the same street, or in the same city. Last time I checked, she was in Russia. (pause) But then who was taking the photo?

DALTON: I'm putting a five-stupid-metaphor a day limit on you, you know that?

**Trolley**: You know, the more I think about it, everything I actually know I learned in the Dear America books. Which probably is not a great basis for college applications, but what can you do? "I know nothing of physics or any other required course matter, BUT! I do know how to make ink out of walnut shells." (sigh)

**Shooter**: Well, Jack says, embrace your inner ego. But you'll never have one as big as him, so…

**Misery**: Well, you know what they say…first it's ducks, then it's mass homicide. Y'know, it's a slipper slope…

**m-e**** lee12**: Attack of the feel-good newsies! (pause) …Dear God, we have a sequel in the works.

**Hope Diamonde**: PARTY ON HOPE! (Hm. D'you think I should start calling Dalton "Charlie-Poo"? Either he'll decide he loves me or he'll attempt homicide. I'm just not sure which one…)

**Ireland**** O'Reily**: What are you talking about? The essence of coolness IS being historically informed, you silly thing…

**Written Sparks**: Right. But TWO hammerhead sharks, at least…come on, WE know the real story. Two angles at once? Pshaw. NICE try, CIA… (but how do they hold the guns with their flippers?)

**Dreamer**: Turnips, mark my words, are highly underrated as birthday cake material. You just gotta make some holes to put the candles in, so they won't fall out! (pause) Now, hand over one of those pixie stix.

**Mattie**: Yes! Damn those Oompaloompas. If Willy Wonka made ocugh syrup, I swear to god the world would be a better place…

**Deanie**: Ah, they wouldn't be any fun if they matured…I mean, what would be the point, unless you wanted to open a jar or something?

DALTON: That's so un-PC on…so many levels…

**Checkmate**: Ah, yours shall be the greatest story ever told—wandering gypsies! Balladeers! You shall roam the earth taking in beauty, living on love…or not. Whatever boats your float. (wink)

DALTON: …Isn't the greatest story ever told the bible?

(hands him a circus peanut) That'll glue his teeth together a good three weeks…


	8. Wild Horses

A/N: ((solemnly)) And now, in order to apologize for the insane lateness of this update, Charlie Dalton will perform a song from the musical "Les Miserables". We hope that it makes it up to you, the audience at home.

DALTON: ((shuffles onstage wearing a lemon-yellow leotard and go-go boots)) ((sings)) MASTER OF THE 'OUSE! DOLING OUT THE CHARM! READY WITH A HANDSHAKE AND AN OPEN PALM! TELLS A SAUCY TALE! MAKES A LITTLE STIR! CUSTOMERS APPRECIATE A—((whispers)) Dakki, how do you pronounce that? ((pause)) Hey, wait a minute…shouldn't you be apologizing? You're the author!

Er.

DALTON: Anyway, I would like to take the time to thank you, the readers at home, for putting up with the insane lateness of this post, and also say that it was basically because of Lute that Dakki updated the fic at all before 2005. And now, my REAL favorite song from Les Miz—((clears his throat)) COME TO ME COSETTE! THE LIGHT IS FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADING! CAN'T YOU SEE THE EVENING STAR A—

((lights out))

DALTON: Hey, where'd everybody go? Hello? Guys? …Doesn't anyone like my leotard?

--

Chapter Eight—

Wild Horses

--

"'Wash the fine clothes in one tub of suds, and throw them, when wrung, into another. Then wash them, in the second suds, turning them wrong side out. Put them in the boiling-bag, and boil them in strong suds, for half an hour, and not much more. Move them, while boiling, with the clothes-stick. Take them out of the boiling-bag, and put them into a tub of water, and rub the dirtiest places, again, if need be. Throwing them into the rinsing-water, and then wring them out, and put them into the blueing water'…"

Spot peered over the top of the book at Misery, who was staring into the mirror, turning her head this way and that, and trying to see if she still had any grass stuck in her plaits from the tussle they had had earlier that morning.

"Mis?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"Ya got any idea what the hell 'blueing water' is?"

She brushed a stray lock of auburn hair out of her eyes, and turned to look at him. "It makes your clothes blue?" she suggested, vaguely.

"But I—I hate the color blue," he stammered, seeming to be near tears. "Mis, I…I don' think I can do this."

"Yes you can."

"No, I can't."

"Spot," she said, picking up her brush and considering her reflection once more, "you have evaded death twelve times with nothing more than a sling shot and interesting hair. You have become dictator to forty-some boys, many of whom possessed biceps with greater circumferences than your waist. You have eaten spoiled mayonnaise and not gotten food poisoning. Twice. Why is doing your own laundry so incredibly hard?"

But Spot, still staring at the book—a copy of Catherine Beecher's _A Treatise on Domestic Economy _that he had borrowed from Hope—didn't seem to hear. A horrified expression on his face, he managed to rip his eyes away from the page, and glance over at Misery. "I just…won't even try. I'll wait until we get to Oregon, and then I'll…have…Sarah do it."

"Don't you think going eight weeks without washing your clothes is sort of pushing it already?" Misery asked.

"I have three pairs of underwear," Spot said. "That means that I have only worn each of them thirty-eight times so far. And I'm pleased to say that they are all still perfectly fresh."

"Spot, when Skittery opened your bag the other day he actually fainted."

"You have NO WAY of proving that my underwear was the cause of that!"

Misery just sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, well…" Spot muttered, suddenly noticing her spotlessly white shift, "if you do laundry so good, why won't you do mine?"

"Oh, I don't do my own laundry," she said casually. "Racetrack does it for me."

"_What_?"

"Yup. He's set up a nice little racket, does your underthings and trousers and all for two bits, sends 'em back to you the next day tied up with a little bow. It's very sweet-looking. Anyway, he's made a fortune doing it."

Spot thought about this for a moment, suddenly realizing how Racetrack _had _always seemed unnaturally fastidious about his clothes, his socks especially. If it weren't for that Sapphy girl he was always gazing after with a goony grin on his face, he would have figured him for a fairy. Either way, though, he couldn't've afforded to now—because, in truth, he really would have done anything to get his laundry done.

"Well," Spot said at last, attempting, in vain, to be casual, "d'you think…maybe…Race could do my laundry?"

"No," Misery said shortly.

Staring at her in disbelief for a moment, Spot just barely stopped himself from sobbing, turning it at the last minute into a snort of derision. "How the hell would you know?"

"Well," Misery considered, "this may just be a hunch, but, I seem to recall Race saying something to the effect of: 'I'd eat a buffalo chip with a side of horseradish before I would wash Spot Conlon's underwear. Mis, could you hand me that blueing-water?'"

"Why doesn't Race like horseradish?" Spot puzzled to himself.

"Look," Misery said, "Spot—I would just advise you, as a friend, to do your laundry. It's a valuable skill and God knows underwear can only _exist _for so long without disintegrating, and then you would have no underwear, and_ then_ where would you be? And," she added, "speaking as a girl—it just isn't attractive."

"I forget, are we fighting right now?"

"It depends on whether you're going to wash your underwear."

Spot just stared at her a moment. "Y'know…you've been talkin' a lot lately. And I'm not sure if I like it."

"That's very cute," she said tartly.

"What?"

"That you think I care. Now," she said, "go ask Racetrack real nice, and maybe he'll lend you some of his clothespins."

So first Spot turned sort of red and then he waved his hands around for a while, and gnashed his teeth, and then, after coming up with no better retort, he stormed off, laundry bag in hand, screaming, "WE'RE FINISHED, MIS!"

"FINE!"

"YEAH! WELL! I'M HAPPIER ABOUT IT THAN YOU ARE!"

"OH, YEAH?"

"YEAH!"

"WANNA SAY THAT TO MY FACE?"

"I JUST DID!"

"WELL…SAY IT AGAIN!"

This part went on for a very long time. It was all a question of who got the last word in.

Sitting over next to the breakfast-fire, eating his customary six-egg omelet while Sapphy worked on her twelve-egg one, Racetrack didn't even bother trying to decipher the conversation once it reached this point.

"So Mis and Spot split up again," he announced, taking a sip of his coffee. Sapphy just nodded. She really wasn't one for small talk in the mornings.

"That's the twelfth time since we crossed over into Nebraska, isn't it?"

"Eleventh."

"Right."

Sapphy paused, staring thoughtfully into her omelet. Then, she turned, and looked at her friend, a bemused smile on her face.

"Hey Race?"

"Yeah?"

"Why _do _you take such good care of your socks?"

"Sapph," Race said, beginning what, she could tell, was going to be a very long conversation, "the socks are the most important part of the wardrobe. Now…"

--

_She's gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen._

--Lloyd Dobler, "Say Anything"

--

She couldn't explain it, but there was something about being in the kitchen that satisfied Kiersten Connors more than anything else. Maybe it was just the simple joy of knowing the precise alchemy of turning eggs and flour and butter into something nourishing and whole, or the fact that, at least when she was cooking, she commanded respect. Maybe it was the fact that she had the highest authority, knew where everything was, knew how to do everything that needed to be done—even on the frontier, substituting hardtack for bread and chicory for coffee and cleaning her cast-iron pans out with sand, she was in control. She didn't know exactly what it was, but she knew that she was happy here, and she knew that, far from being just the right place for her, it was the right place—the _admirable _place—for any woman.

And that was why she was worried this morning—her oldest daughter, Hope, seemed to have gone astray. Now, it was her job to guide her back on track.

She had first started to notice the signs a few months ago—Hope slipping off barely after breakfast to go walk with her friends, picking up their slang even—and now that the weather was turning hot, she sometimes walked around wearing nothing but her shift and boots: when just two months ago she would have been mortified at the idea of going off in public without her bonnet securely fastened over her lovely red hair. Kiersten even had the feeling that she might have even thrown out that copy of _A Treatise on Domestic Economy_ that she had so thoughtfully given to her on her last birthday.

Hope had always had a little too much spirit for her own good, but something told Kiersten that there was some kind of direct cause for this behavior. She even knew its name: Mush Meyers.

It was just past nine when Hope skipped over, looking for a little breakfast, and maybe something to read that didn't involve laundry. Her mother was sitting on a stool beside the wagon, pitting and canning a bowl of black cherries. Ever since the first hot days of spring had set in a few weeks ago, people had been lining up with things for her to cook: first Hope with a honey comb that Mush had gotten for her, then the rest of them, bringing buttery field mushrooms, wild carrots, parsnips, Jerusalem artichoke, and once, a whole pound of tiny wild strawberries, heart-shaped and bleeding with juice--until one day Lute and Snitch had showed up, hats filled to the brims with fresh plums, expectant smiles on their faces, and Kiersten had put her foot down. No more canning, no more cooking, no more pickling, no more drying, no more anything; she would work her way through the food she had and make the breakfasts and dinners and do up the preserves, and _then _she would get to the plums.

And Snitch and Lute had just shrugged and wandered off, chins already sticky with juice.

So now, it was the first of June, and Kiersten was up to her elbows in cherries, hardly a wonderful position to negotiate from, but she would make do. As soon as she saw Hope skip up into the wagon—no doubt to find that copy of _Tess of the D'Urbervilles _she had, so battered its spine was nearly broken—she called her back, and sat her down on the stool next to hers.

"Sweet," she said, before her daughter could get anything out, "let me tell you a story.

"Once upon a time, there was a young girl just like you, and just like you, she wanted more than anything to grow up. And she did many things before her friends, but the thing she yearned for first was to wear a corset: she dreamed of having a tiny, ladylike waist just like her older sisters."

"But I don't wear a—"

"Ssh. Let me finish." She put down the paring knife that she had been using to work the pits out, and wiped off her hands on a clean cloth, delivered that morning in a bundle by the Italian boy. "Now, one day, when she was a little younger than you, the girl's mother said to her that she could finally have her own corset. Naturally, the girl was overjoyed. So they went to the department store, and so happy was the girl that she could finally have one, she picked out the first corset the saw, without even bothering to shop around for a better one. So they bought it—and not two days passed before it broke. That was what the girl got for making decisions hastily." Kiersten sat back, satisfied, and looked at her daughter in the eye. "I think I've made my point."

Hope just stared at her blankly. "I don't think I understand."

"What don't you understand, Sweet?"

"Well, I mean, I don't own a corset. Nobody I know does."

"Well, the _corset _is a _metaphor_."

"Oh. …For what?"

"For a boy, dear. I hope this means something to you."

And suddenly Hope knew exactly what her mother was talking about.

"But I won't do it. You can't make me."

"I can and I will." She saw the tearful look on her daughter's face, and sighed. "I know you think it will hurt him, but do you honestly think he loves you? Don't you know that he's just trying to use you?—now, don't cry, that never helped anyone. You're not a child anymore." She picked up an immaculately white handkerchief and handed it to her daughter. "And," she said, "on the off-chance that he has any real feeling for you, which I doubt—look, I'm just trying to make you feel better—then he will recover eventually, I think. But yes, beforehand, he will be hurt, crushed even. But the truth hurts. Now—go out there and do what needs to be done."

And that was exactly how Spot found Mush when he came across him a few hours later: hurt, crushed even, and trying desperately not to cry into the perfectly starched, white handkerchief that Hope had given him before she left. He was sitting by himself in a grove of Sycamores, just hidden from sight, and Spot had only found him because they had been about to leave that morning when they had realized Mush was left behind, and Spot had been sent out to find him, of course. (That was the story they were going to _tell _Mush, anyway. In reality, they had gotten a good half hour out of camp before anyone even noticed he was gone.)

"You okay, Mush?" Spot asked.

Mush nodded, and then looked up at Spot and almost burst out laughing.

"What?" Spot said defensively. If Mush hadn't looked so miserable already, he probably would have socked him in the jaw.

"Well…your clothes, Spot." Mush stifled a laugh again. "They're blue."

This was true. Spot's clothes were, in fact, all colored a rather unflattering shade of blue since his attempt to do laundry earlier that morning, and his hands were still dyed up to the elbows, no matter how many times he scrubbed at them with fat soap and water.

"Look," Spot said through clenched teeth, "do _you _know what blueing water is?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what is it?"

"A blue liquid, generally of indigo, used in rinsing white fabrics to prevent yellowing," Mush recited. "What, you didn't know that? Haven't you ever helped Racetrack with his laundering business?"

Spot just glared at him.

"Well, anyway, thanks for cheering me up, Spot," Mush said, almost happily. "I really needed a laugh. Leader of the Brooklyn newsies, doesn't even know what blueing water is. No wonder Jack's always makin' fun of you. But hey," he said, when he saw the expression of utter rage on Spot's face, "what kinda host am I being? Come sit down." He patted the ground next to him, and Spot, reluctantly, took a seat beside Mush, in leaning against the trunk of the Sycamore tree.

"So what are you so upset about?" Mush asked. "I mean, apart from the fact that you don't know what blueing water is?"

"How do you know I'm upset abut anything?" Spot asked irritably.

"You're always upset about something."

"Oh. Right. Well, me an' Mis split up again this morning—"

"For the twelfth time since we got to Nebraska?"

"No. The eleventh." Spot glared at Mush, who just shrugged. "Anyway, we split up again, and this time I think it's final, and well, it just…it's not like I care or anything. But…anyway. What's the matter with you?" he asked quickly.

And, suddenly remembering his problems, Mush sighed, and leaned his head back against the tree trunk.

"Sorry," Spot said, sounding almost sincere.

"It's fine. I mean…I'll be fine."

"Really?"

"No."

Spot took pity on him then. The bluing water remark aside—and that really had been below the belt—Mush was going through everything he was right now, and hurting so bad that it felt like his heart had been torn out—not that Spot felt that way—but there had to be some way to make him feel better. To make both of them feel better. And Spot knew exactly what it was.

"Listen," he said, putting a blue hand on Mush's shoulder, "you know we're getting to Fort Kearny tonight?" Mush nodded miserably. "And you know what's there?"

"A feed store and a church?"

"What else?"

"A post office?" Mush considered this. "But why would that make me happy? No one ever sends me mail! Not even seed samples! SPOT, NOT EVEN THE SEED SAMPLE PEOPLE LIKE ME, I—"

"MUSH!"

"What?"

"I am not talking. About. A post office. I am talking about the greatest whorehouse the American West has to offer."

"Oh."

Ever since they left Kansas City, Spot had been hearing stories about it, and now they were here, less than a day away, and he was determined to go. He told Mush about it, everything that he had heard: the most beautiful girls in Nebraska all lined up in their satin skirts; the champagne, the singing, the dancing till dawn. He had enough money saved up in his sock drawer to buy two girls; it was the perfect way to get over losing a lover. And Mush was going to come along, whether he liked it or not.

"You'd do that for me, Spot?"

"'Course I would. Can't stand to have you moping around any longer. And hey, who knows—maybe, if you really want to pay be back for it, I'll let you do my laundry."

"Really?"

"Sure thing, kid. After all, it was the least I could do."

--

Fort Kearny was tiny really—just a church, a boarding house, a post office, and a general store made up the respectable portion of it, as well as a few weathered houses scattered along Main Street. And then there was Eurydice's: billed as the finest brothel in the West, and, as any weary traveler would tell you, it really was. It was not only a place to go if the journey got too long or the night too cold and lonely, but also the only place to go to get a stiff drink, play a game of chess, buy a copy of the news from New York City, catch up on your gossip, get advice on what to give to your wife for her birthday (and have it special-ordered from Paris), and play a hand of poker. Almost every night (not to mention morning and afternoon), the place was packed to bursting; as far as a half a mile away, you could hear through the clear spring air the sound of the commotion inside.

Standing next to Apollo, trying to warm herself as the coolness of night set in, Sapphy didn't know whether it would be better to look away or just keep staring straight ahead, waiting until she stopped feeling any pain. Either way, she couldn't seem to get it out of her head: no matter what they said, every one of these was the same, across every state line and border, and even here, on the plains of Nebraska, all she could think about was a place just like this in New Mexico, the place she had called home for nearly six months of her life.

Aphrodite's. It was a classy name, and the men liked to keep it classy too: felt sometimes like if they were putting their wad of cash down on a lacquered little night table in a room lit the color of roses, maybe they weren't putting money down at all, maybe the girls really did want them: and those moans and embraces and kisses were real after all, and not just an act. Some of them believed her, some of them didn't. She was a good actress. A great one. _The next Lillie Langtree, just you watch,_ Madame used to laugh when they put her up on stage to sing for the men, the only time she was really happy. _Eyes bright and blue as sapphires, hasn't she—and a voice like a songbird! Like an angel!_ If only there could be real angels. Satin skirts coming up over long legs and bruised knees, and glasses of pink champagne—gently now, gently. Sometimes they would ask her to take her clothes off for them, sometimes they undid the buttons and clasps themselves, but the only one she would even remember was the last she ever saw, the one who finally took her away: hands so rough and gentle, and how he kissed her like he meant it, and how they had melted into each other like milk and honey. He came back every day for a week and on the last day he had asked her, _What__ do you say, my songbird, how would you like to get out of this cage?_

Looking off one last time towards the horizon, she wiped the tears from her eyes, raised her face to the sky, and said one last quiet thank you. Then, she turned around, and called into the shadows to the person she knew had been waiting for her:

"What do you say, Higgins—how about we give you a run for your money?"

--

_His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean  
__And you're the best thing that he's ever seen…_

--Bob Dylan, "Lay Lady Lay"

--

She had been riding with him almost every night since the beginning of March, but it was only now that she challenged him to a race. He was confident he could give her a real challenge; she doubted it. Either way, she just needed a way to busy herself, and get her mind off things.

They set off just as the sun was fading from the horizon, with barely enough light to still see by—to the cottonwood tree a mile away and back, over the flat ground and new grass. It was simple enough, and she was confident she would beat him.

She started off with a steady lead. Apollo was in top form, thundering along without her even having to dig her heels in. She pictured him as he must be seen from far away: a glorious streak of gold blending into the sunset. And then, just when she felt she could almost smell victory, she saw a blur of gray streak past her right side. Racetrack.

She was fast, but he was faster; as she urged Apollo on, harder and harder, she could see him slowly get away from her, millimeter by millimeter, and the cottonwood tree was getting closer and the sky was getting darker and then—the ground dropped out from under her.

She pitched forward over Apollo's head, and fell hard on the ground. Apollo was behind her and for a brief moment she imagined being trampled under his powerful hooves, could almost feel it, but then she heard him as he came down on the other side of her, grazed past her within a hair's breadth. He didn't get far.

Afterwards—after Race had noticed she was nowhere to be seen and came back to look for her, right as he reached the cottonwood tree and was about to belt out the first verse of _The Racetrack Song_; after they had found the rabbit hole that Apollo had put his foot through, breaking his leg; after they had brought that glorious animal back to the campground and heard what they already knew: that there was no way to save him, at least without holding up the rest of the wagon train for months, and that, the next morning, he would have to be destroyed; after Sapphy had said goodbye to the animal that had been her only friend for so many months, run her hands over him one last time—afterwards, they sat together in Racetrack's tent, Sapphy leaning against him as he held her in his arms, too numb, too hurt, even to cry, wondering what she would do.

And as she talked, Racetrack thought, and wondered if there was any way he ever could think to comfort her, if someone who had only ever experienced pain could give anything to someone else.

And some time near midnight—it might have been the next day—she leaned her head against his shoulder and looked him in the eyes and said, half to herself: "I don't think I'll ever be strong enough." And he knew exactly what to do;

And he reached down and kissed her, kissed her like rain in a desert, kissed her like snow melting in the spring, and she opened up beneath him, like the petals of a rose.

--

**Shout outs!**

**LadyRach**: KID BLINK: Obviously, you have never had a fish put down you pants before.

RACETRACK: And you do not understand the full dangers of a lightning storm!

((both skip off into the sunset singing the Update Song))

Well, at least they're not having gratuitous, badly-written sex, I guess…((pause)) What am I SAYING?

**Dreamer110**: YAY! ((thinks a moment, and hands the purple one over to Dalton))

DALTON: Dakki, I…I don't know what to say—I'm touched.

Well, it coordinates with your leotard.

DALTON: It's not a LEOTARD! It's a dance outfit.

**Hope Diamonde**: DALTON: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! ((runs off))

((shrugs)) Well, it was worth a try…

**Ireland**** O'Reily**: Hm. I think I shall check by putting some goldfish down Blink's pants. It's a regular game at our house, actually: "Let's Put Something Down Blink's Pants And See If He Finds It Objectionable". We play it on Tuesday nights, instead of Yahtzee.

And! You shall be making your debut, my love, in the next chapter, as a prostitute. But, you know, a classy one.

BLINK: Why don't we ever put those down my pants?

**Shooter O'Brien**: BLINK: I know you rule _my _world, baby.

Aaaaaaand the award for worst come-on line ever goes to…

(Actually, Blink gets the second place trophy. The best goes to Charlie, for "Am I happy to see you, or have I just stuck a CANOE down my leotard?")

**Lute-my-love**: ((does the "Guess-who-updated-before-Lute-did?" dance)) Enough said, my Ice Cream Princess.

**Sapphy**: DALTON: ((reads)) …I don't get it. Was that in reference to just the fish? Am I missing something?

((flicks Dalton's equally flickable ear, giggles and runs off))

**MiseryLovesCompany**: AUGH! NOT THE DUCKS! HAVE MERCY! I—((is trampled by four thousand Canadian geese))

HA! I have only been trampled by a different species of waterfowl! I—((is trampled by ducks))

Rats.

**Utopia Today**: Almost as delicious as Dalton's lemon leotard? Yum.

DALTON: How! Many! Times! Do I have to tell you? It's…A DANCE COSTUME!

**Checkmate**: ((solemnly) I love you. Marry me? ((sings)) AND NOBODY! IN ALL OF OZ! NO WIZARD THAT THERE IS OR WAS! IS EVER GONNA BRING…ME-E-EEEEEEEEE DOOOOOWWWWWWN! Sing with me, Charlie!

**NadaZimri**: Oh, his pelvic thrust is going beautifully—especially with his leotard on.

DALTON:…I'm not even gonna try anymore.

**Saturday**: GAH. What is it about your reviews that just makes me jump up and down and then grin like Christian Bale just walked into the computer room wearing nothing but a silver ribbon, and then feel all empowered to sit down and write another chapter? What? I don't know. But we must get married, or at the very least become a Broadway-musical writing team—Marshall/Brown, or Brown/Marshall, if you wish.

--

NEXT UP—THE NEXT CHAPTER, WHICH WILL COME MUCH FASTER THAN THIS ONE DID, HAVE TWO NEW OC'S, THE INTERIOR OF A BROTHEL, AND OTHER FUN STUFF!

DALTON: Like we believe you.

But you MUST! Clap if you believe in updates! …And Dalton's lemon-yellow leotard. Really, tell him he looks sexy. I think he needs it a lot.


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